


Cold Comfort

by cadastre



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociation, Gore, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Imprisonment, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Violence, it's not a happy story, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-04-21 10:08:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 29,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14282637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadastre/pseuds/cadastre
Summary: The most surprising part was how easy it was for Fisk to disable Matt.It shouldn’t have been a shock, not really, Foggy would later think to himself. Really, it should’ve been a shock it hadn’t happened before.After all, Matt’s not Captain America. He’s just a guy. Sure, a guy with really amazing senses who can tumble and throw a punch like it’s his job, but a guy nonetheless.The thought’s a cold comfort, though, as he stares at the blank metal door waiting for Fisk to come back.--------------Matt and Foggy get captured by Fisk, and things go downhill from there.Finished work, will be uploading chapters approximately once a week.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE pay attention to warnings. This is not a happy story, and it has a lot of violence and assault in it. Consider yourself warned.
> 
> Un-beta'd.

The most surprising part was how easy it was for Fisk to disable Matt.

It shouldn’t have been a shock, not really, Foggy would later think to himself. Really, it should’ve been a shock it hadn’t happened before.

After all, Matt’s not Captain America. He’s just a guy. Sure, a guy with really amazing senses who can tumble and throw a punch like it’s his job, but a guy nonetheless.

The thought’s a cold comfort, though, as he stares at the blank metal door waiting for Fisk to come back.

\-----------------------------------------

It turns out that all Fisk needs to take out Matt is a couple of air horns and baseball bats.

Well, that and some goons. And for Matt to be drunk. And for him to be trying to protect Foggy (also drunk). It’s a combination of factors, really, but Foggy isn’t thinking about that when the goons loom out of the shadows as they stumble home from Josie’s late that night (early that morning?).

He’s thinking about Matt. He’s thinking about Matt, and about Matt’s lips. He’s thinking about the arm Matt has slung around his shoulder and the way he’s carelessly leaning his weight against Foggy, about how warm he is against the autumn chill and how far of a stumble it is home. He isn’t thinking about anything, not really, when the goons step out from the alley and surround them.

Matt tenses a second before they appear around them. Foggy is almost too uncertain to even think the thought, but it’s clear Matt’s pretty far gone since he hadn’t noticed them from a block away.

“Fuck,” he mumbles as he feels Matt tense against him, as he finally notices the looming figures on all sides. _Fuck_ , he thinks, _if Matt didn’t hear them, can he even fight right now?_

“It’s okay, Foggy,” Matt whispers as if he heard the thought. “I’m just a little drunk. I can handle it.”

And, no, Matt’s fucking _slurring_ and this isn’t great, not great at all, and Foggy honestly doesn’t think Matt _can_ handle it right now. Matt’s still only human, and it won’t solve the problem that he’s clearly blind and _not wearing his fucking costume right now_ and the goons’ll _know_. Nope, there is only one solution here: Foggy Nelson is going to take it like a bitch.

“Look, it’s cool, we’ll just give you our wallets.” 

It’s worth losing his wallet if it means keeping Matt safe. It’s worth anything.

One goon chuckles at that, until another shoots him a look and he shuts up, glares back at them like the rest.

It doesn’t make any sense. It takes Foggy a second to notice that the goons are in suits, not whatever gangbangers usually wear nowadays. God, he is _plastered_ , and what the fuck is even happening?

Matt’s standing now, no longer supported by Foggy, the threat behind his fighting stance belayed as he sways a little from the alcohol. Foggy knows Matt can hear how fast his heart is beating.

“Nelson and Murdock?” one of the goons asks, close cropped hair shining under the street light.

“Guilty as charged,” Matt replies, staring into the middle distance, a faint smile on his lips ( _the lips he had been thinking about_ , Foggy thinks to himself as the world begins to slow to a surreal crawl).

There’s no warning between that and when three of the goons blast marine-grade air horns at them.

Foggy startles, hands up to his ears before he can think, and he can only imagine Matt does the same. The rest is almost too fast to follow, as Matt flinches at the sheer volume of the sound (it must be deafening for someone with such powerful hearing) and then Goon-in-Suit #1 swings a bat at the back of Matt’s head while Goon-in-Suit #2 slams another bat into his stomach and he crumples. And almost simultaneously Goon-in-Suit #3 cracks another bat across Matt’s legs, and then again, and again, and again, and Foggy can hear himself yelling and yelling and oh God this can’t be real, it can’t, he can’t be watching this.

And then Goon-in-Suit #4 hits Foggy across the side of the face with the butt of his pistol and the world abruptly bursts white with the pain.

He doesn’t pass out, not really. This isn’t TV, after all. But the blaze of pain is enough to disorient him and allow them to grab him, to cuff him, to shove him into the car, with Matt just behind. Matt makes a noise when he’s thrown in, half yelp, half animal scream, and for a second Foggy’s confused because a human’s legs aren’t supposed to bend like that. And then there’s a hood pulled over his head, and one of the goons snarls a low, “If you move, we shoot him.”

It’s probably directed at Matt, it’s not like anyone’s even really bothering to pretend that Foggy’s a threat, but Foggy freezes nonetheless. 

He can hear them doing something to Matt, probably putting earplugs on him to dull his senses, and then the car lurches into motion. There’s no noise but Matt’s ragged panting and the creak of leather, and the entire right side of his face aches so badly it’s all he can do not to whimper.

At some point the car stops and the men grab them both, and Matt makes that noise again and Foggy wants to scream himself, frustration at the pain he can hear in Matt’s voice and his inability to stop it and, yeah, maybe a little fear as well.

He’s man enough to admit he’s afraid.

They’re hauled into some building, Foggy can tell from the change in sound and isn’t he just becoming a regular Daredevil himself? He can’t tell much else about it, but he’s sure Matt could probably tell which block it’s on just from the smell or something.

If Matt was conscious.

Foggy’s not entirely sure he isn’t conscious, but he does know Matt was making a lot of noise for a while there, ragged breaths and muffled whimpers and angry grunts as he tried to get his hands free, but he’s stopped making them now.

Foggy is afraid.

Foggy is very afraid.

\--------------------

The goons slam the door before he can get a good look at where they are, at where they just came from.

Instead, he gets an eyeful of blank, corroding metal and featureless concrete walls.

Foggy looks around the room.

It’s small, maybe fifteen by fifteen, with a small sink and toilet without a seat and concrete walls and florescent lights that hurt his eyes. He worries for a second that he has a concussion, before remembering that there’s nothing he can do about it if he does.

And anyway, Matt’s definitely the one to worry about, concussion-wise.

He looks over to the other wall, to the bare mattress lying on the dirty floor, to where the goons threw Matt. He hasn’t moved.

Foggy stumbles towards him, a little dizzy and maybe he does have a concussion after all, and falls to his knees on the mattress. Matt moans at the motion, seems to come to, and opens his empty eyes.

“Matt? Matt? Are you okay?” Foggy asks, before shaking his head because no, obviously Matt’s not okay, nothing is okay right now.

“Foggy.” The relief in Matt’s voice is palpable, shouldn’t hurt as much as it does except that Matt should have known it was Foggy, just from the beat of his heart, just from the smell of his shampoo, just from whatever it is that Matt senses with his freaky senses. Except that he’s probably pretty distracted at the moment.

“Jesus, Matt, _fuck_ ,” Foggy whispers, fully taking in the state of his friend for the first time.

Matt’s legs are broken.  
Not a little broken, not a “stable fracture” kind of broken. They’re _broken_ broken.

Both of them.

There’s also blood on the mattress behind Matt’s head, and his wrists are banged to Hell from struggling against the cuffs earlier.

But _Jesus_ , his _legs_.

If Foggy has to blame the nausea on a concussion, then so be it.

“Fuck, Matt, they did a number on you,” he blurts out, looking at Matt’s face, at the eyes that can’t meet his just so he doesn’t have to look at his legs.

“Yeah,” Matt says vaguely, a smile almost touching his lips and Foggy doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry because of course Matt is the one person who can have two broken legs and probably a broken head and still make a joke out of it.

“Can I get a look at your head?” Foggy asks, reaching out tentatively. Matt leans forward a little bit before abruptly stopping and going even more pale than he already is. Foggy catches his head before it falls back, gently leans him forward and looks.

He’s got a cut on the back of his scalp that’s bleeding steadily, but the bone seems to be intact when Foggy touches around it gingerly.

“Felt it coming,” Matt grits out, almost apologetically. “Should’ve been faster, shouldn’t have got me at all. But felt it coming, so didn’t get me bad.”

Well, he’s talking, so that must be good, right?

“You probably have a concussion, though,” Foggy says, trying to sound like a doctor instead of a still-fairly-drunk lawyer who only looked up the WebMD page for concussions once after getting hit in the head with a Frisbee. “Did you pass out when they hit you?”

“No,” Matt replies, and then adds, “Please lay me down again? This…hurts.”

Yeah, Foggy would bet it does hurt, what with his legs, and he lays Matt back down as gently as he can, and tentatively pulls up the cuffs of Matt’s pants to get a better look at the damage. Matt’s eyes go wide for a second, and he bites off a yell as Foggy tries to ease the fabric up as softly as he can.

“Sorry, sorry! Hey Matt, do you remember what day it is? What’s my dog’s name? What did we drink at Josie’s tonight?” He’s got to keep this light, has to keep this about Matt’s head and not the fact they’re locked in a concrete room who-knows-where and by who-knows-whom, with the only one of them capable of getting them out fully incapacitated.

“Depends on the time right now, you don’t have a dog, and everything,” Matt replies, smiling a thin smile that fades even as it appears. “Foggy, how bad are my legs? I know they're broken but moving them when I sat up to check was too painful, and all I can tell is that they…really hurt.”

Oh God. Here they are, at this part of the evening, where a boy tells his best friend exactly how broken his legs really are.

“They’re…they’re…not great,” Foggy says lamely, before the look on Matt’s face tells him that that is not going to be enough. “They’re…really broken, Matt. I can’t see any bone, but…they’re broken.”

Matt grimaces and nods to himself, as though this merely confirms his theory, and then seems to be trying to collect his thoughts. Foggy knows the feeling.

After a minute he opens his empty eyes again.

“Is there anything around you can splint them with? You’re going to have to straighten them for me, and we need to make splints.”

And isn’t that the crux of the issue.

There’s nothing in the room that might make a splint. Even the mattress is heavily upholstered foam, with no springs they might be able to use, and too thick to tear.

 _Well, Foggy-bear_ , he thinks to himself, _you really are up shit creek without a paddle, since you could at least make a splint out of a paddle_.

“No,” he says at last, forcing himself not to look away from Matt’s face as he says it. Matt’s the one in pain here, not him.

He’s seen Matt in pain before, seen him practically cut to shreds, but the blank look that passes over his face at the word still turns Foggy’s stomach. It’s Matt getting a hold of himself, and if Foggy never has to see that look again it would be too soon.

“Okay,” Matt says in an empty voice. “Okay.” And everything is very, very far from okay.

\------------------------

Eventually, the pain is too much for Matt, and they decide to try straightening his legs even if they can’t splint them. Foggy’s not really sure how long “eventually” is, exactly, since there are no windows in their cell and the florescent light never fades or changes. But he guesses it might be about two or three hours, maybe.

Two hours over which he has to watch Matt get paler and paler, clench his fists and grit his teeth and shift slightly, and then to watch tears begin to trickle out of the corners of his eyes, listen to his harsh panting and (around the time the tears start) the whimpers he bites back.

And all he can do is sit by Matt on the mattress and hold his hand and do nothing.

It’s a relief when Matt asks him to help straighten his legs. At least that way he’ll be able to help. Maybe.

Matt talks him through it, like he does it all the time, like he’s had experience setting broken bones before. Which, considering the childhood that he doesn’t talk about, and which Foggy will not ask about, he might have.

It’s not the most comforting thought, but it’s not the least comforting one either.

So Foggy grabs hold of his feet and _pulls_. Not fast or harsh or jerky—he doesn’t want to hurt Matt, he’s so afraid of hurting Matt—but steady and strong.

And Matt sighs as he does it, as the tension pulls things back to roughly where they should be, and Foggy just thinks _thank God something worked right this evening._

When he’s done, Matt’s legs are…better. Things seem like they’re where they should be, or at least more than they were, and while there’s bruising, Matt can still feel his toes, and although Foggy’s no expert it looks like no major blood vessels were damaged. Matt’s pain level has clearly decreased, too, which can only be a good sign.

Foggy tries not to feel optimistic.

Optimism is...unwarranted in this situation. But at least one problem is, not fixed, per se, but…less of a problem? That’s progress. And Foggy will take it.

\--------------------------

Fisk arrives soon enough, and puts a stop to all that pesky hope.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering when things get really graphic, this is it. Seriously, don't read this if that's not for you.

After the leg straightening, Foggy ends up on the mattress sitting against the back wall of the cell with Matt leaning against his chest. They’re both exhausted after the ordeal, and Foggy finds himself dozing with his hand gently stroking Matt’s hair.

Clearly Matt’s feeling better, though, because he hears Fisk approaching.

Foggy’s almost asleep when Matt tenses against him, and then sits up gingerly. Foggy startles awake instantly, aware that something’s happening. Before he can ask, Matt shoots him a look and simply says, “ _Fisk_.”

_Oh FUCK_ , Foggy thinks.

The sound of the metal door creaking open on rusted hinges would be almost cliché, like something out of a horror movie, if it wasn’t also so terrifying.

And then, there’s Fisk, backlit from the brighter hall lights, his bulk almost filling the doorway.

“Gentlemen,” he says in that _voice_ of his, and Foggy’s skin crawls as he scrambles to his feet.

“Fisk,” Matt replies evenly, as though he’s not sitting on a mattress in a cell with both of his legs broken.

“I trust you’re enjoying your accommodations?” Fisk asks, which makes it just about Foggy’s cue to jump into this conversation.

“Cut the shit, Fisk, what is all this about?” he snaps as boldly as he can when he’s fairly sure he’s going to die shortly.

Fisk ignores him, and _fuck_ if he isn’t getting tired of people acting like he doesn’t matter. Instead, the man looks intently at Matt.

“I told you I’d have my revenge on you, and Nelson too,” Fisk says softly, and based on Matt’s facial expression he isn’t surprised.

“You did,” Matt allows, his gaze hovering somewhere over Fisk’s shoulder, but Foggy can tell he’s observing Fisk intently in that freaky way he does. “But why…?” he adds with a wave at his recently straightened legs.

“Oh, let’s not be coy, Murdock. I’ve had suspicions for a long time,” Fisk replies, expression veering away from self-satisfied towards outright gleeful. “The mask doesn’t cover everything. Most are too…blind…to look beyond your disability. I am not.”

Matt nods to himself, but none of this has really answered Foggy’s question.

“Alright, so you’ve caught us and you’ve got us here. What’re you going to do, pull out our fingernails?” Foggy demands. _Kill us?_ he doesn’t add.

Fisk abruptly turns his gaze to Foggy, and he finds himself regretting the choice to speak. If he had a nickel for every time that’s been the case…

“Franklin Nelson,” Fisk rumbles, taking a step forward, and Foggy instinctively takes a step back and finds himself against the wall. Why is this cell so small? Another step, and there’s nowhere to go. God, he’s gigantic, and Foggy can’t think of any time he’s ever felt this small.

“Funny you should ask that,” he continues, looming. “You and Murdock put me in prison, Nelson, and forced my Vanessa overseas. You lost me my money and my empire. You stole _a year of my life. **I am going to have my revenge**_.”

Suddenly Fisk’s hand is on his collar, lifting him up, shaking him like a rat, and he’s just trying to hold onto the monstrous fist so he doesn’t suffocate. Fisk isn’t smiling any more. He looks like a storm cloud about to erupt. He can faintly hear Matt struggling to reach him, to do anything at all to make Fisk stop, but his _legs are fucking broken_ and even Matt can’t fight through that.

And before Foggy can think any other thoughts, Fisk has ripped his belt open and pulled his pants down to his hips and has spun him around and slammed him against the wall.

\-----------------------

_Alright, that’s how this is going to be_ , Foggy thinks with an inexplicable sense of calm as his face slams into the concrete. _He’s going to rape me_.

He feels himself fighting against the hands pulling at his clothing, struggling against the bulk holding him immobile, but on an intellectual level he knows it’s not a fight he’s going to win. Fuck, _Matt_ went up against Fisk and Fisk almost killed him. What chance does he have?

And it’s like thinking of Matt kicks his mind back into action. Fuck, Matt is in the room, he’s _listening to this_ , he’s going to hear Foggy get raped.

And Foggy’s barely even gotten to kiss him, and it’s just.

It’s not fair, that this is how this is going to be introduced between them. It’s not fair that this is going to be what Matt thinks about from now on, if he thinks about Foggy, sex-wise.

It’s not fair.

Fisk doesn’t know, though, and he certainly doesn’t care.

Foggy can feel him pumping his dick, hears him spit into his hand and use it to slick himself up and feels some of the cold spit spread against his hole and with a cold shiver down his spine thinks _oh God please let there be more prep than just that_.

But apparently God’s got better things to be doing than watching out for his unfortunate son or his unfortunate son’s best friend, because he feels Fisk start to push against his hole.

“Stop,” he gasps out at the pain that’s already starting to bloom. “ _Please stop_.”

As he says the words, he becomes aware of Matt, that Matt’s saying something, that Matt’s pleading.

“Stop, Fisk, _stop, please_ , let it be me, don’t do this, please, don’t hurt Foggy, take me, _please_.”

“Quiet,” Fisk rumbles, and he shoves himself inside Foggy and

And Foggy screams.

There’s no more thinking, no more awareness. The world narrows to the pain as Fisk fucks into him, as he grunts and ruts and Foggy can smell his sweat and he may vomit, he may already have vomited.

Fisk is fucking him raw, he’s not sure he’ll even be able to walk after this. He feels something tear and suddenly everything feels more slick and oh God it’s blood, it’s blood, it’s his blood. And Fisk just continues, fucking and fucking, until he feels a flood of wetness as the other man comes. And abruptly he’s shoved against the wall and allowed to drop to the floor, feeling empty and hating the feeling of emptiness even as he becomes conscious of it, as the door grinds open and shut behind him.

God, he just wants to crawl out of his skin. He just wants to be dead. He just wants to be someone else, someone who isn’t _dirty_. He just wants to be a butcher and to never have heard the word “law.” He just wants to go home.

It doesn’t matter what he wants. He didn’t want to be raped by Wilson fucking Fisk, and that just happened anyway.

So he ignores Matt’s cries of concern and lets himself slump against the concrete wall and to just _not_ for a minute or an hour or year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been totally shocked by the number of people who have read this after just a short time, so just for fun decided to post Chapter 2 early. Thanks to everyone who left kudos--you folks are the best :)


	3. Chapter 3

He startles back to the world when a hand touches his shoulder.

Before he can register thought or fear or even pain he’s across the cell, panting. And then the pain slams into him, crumples him against the wall, and he drops back to the ground.

It was Matt, he realizes between gasps, between the tears that he can’t seem to stop. Matt had somehow crawled over to him to see if he was okay. Well. “Okay” relatively speaking.

“Foggy,” Matt says softly, like he’s a spooked horse, because, well, he kind of is acting like one right now. “Foggy, are you okay?”

And he tries to bite back the laugh, he really does, because he doesn’t want to scare Matt. But just like everything else so far, it doesn’t work.

“No, Matt,” he says, and he’s a little afraid of how calm his voice sounds. “I’m not okay.”

“I know,” Matt whispers, and wipes the back of a hand across his eyes. “Please, Foggy, come over here so I can help. I don’t think I can get over there.”

The abject misery in Matt’s voice is enough to bring him back to himself a little, and Foggy won’t add “hurting Matt” to the list of things that are already going wrong, so he slowly, carefully, shuffles back over to where Matt’s sitting.

“How’d you…?” Foggy asks, trying not to think about the entirely new varieties of pain he is feeling right now, that he has never felt before. “…are your legs okay?”

“It hurt,” Matt replies, and the way he bites off the sentence tells Foggy he was probably gone for longer than he thought, that he scared Matt enough that he felt like he had to brave the pain to get to him, to check on him.

Foggy arranges himself against the wall next to Matt, and Matt takes his hand and gently squeezes it.

“I’m sorry,” Matt whispers. Before Foggy can think a kiss is being placed on the side of his head, and the tears are back, pouring out of him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him.”

And what can Foggy even say to Matt that will make him understand that it wasn’t his fault? That he doesn’t blame him for not stopping Fisk when he’s got two broken legs? That he knows he’s useless, and this is no more than he deserves for not helping Matt when they still had a chance to escape?

They sit like that long enough that Foggy loses any sense of time passing.

Eventually though, the cold of the concrete floor starts to seep into his bones, and his back aches from the concrete wall and _why is everything always made of concrete_? Would it be too much to ask for some padding or something?

So he gets to his knees, and tries to help Matt turn and push himself back to the mattress. He’s not delusional enough to think trying to carry Matt is a good idea right now. And when they’re situated, once he’s made sure Matt’s legs are as okay as he can make them, he crawls next to Matt and curls against him and lets him stroke his hair and whisper to him that it will be okay, and gradually falls asleep not feeling safe but feeling loved.

\---------------------------------------------

He wakes up gasping, heart pounding, tears on his face.

“Is he here?” Foggy chokes out as he pushes himself upright, gritting his teeth against the pain that movement has become. “Is he coming?”

“Shh,” Matt soothes hazily, reaching out calming hands and gathering Foggy up against him. “It’s okay, it’s okay, he’s not here, he’s not coming, you’re okay, you’re okay.” And it’s a lie, they both know it’s a lie, but he forgives Matt his words just the same.

Foggy wants desperately to allow Matt to rub his back, to make soft, gentle noises at him for a while. But now that he’s awake he is becoming conscious of just how unspeakably disgusting he feels. He’s cold and aching and hungry and he can feel the alcohol sweat and exertion sweat, the dried tears on his face and down lower the…the…

_Don’t think it, Nelson, don’t_ , he tells himself. _If you don’t think about it, it’s like nothing happened._

So instead he hauls himself off the mattress and over to the sink and begins to scrub at his face and neck and hands, like he can somehow make himself clean again, as if anything will ever make him clean again.

It almost takes more force of will than he can muster to pull his pants down and to try and scrub between his legs where…where…

_No, Foggy-bear, don’t you think it._

There’s blood down there. God, he just wants to strip off his skin.

He’s just pulled up his pants again, is washing his hands for the fifth or sixth time when Matt says, “Foggy.”

Immediately Foggy feels his heart beat double time, finds himself pressing against the back wall, thoughts drowned out by a chorus of please no please no please no. Matt must hear him move, hear his heart kick into overdrive, because he quickly says, “It’s not him. But someone’s coming.”

It doesn’t make him feel much better, but he’s able to take a deep breath before a slot at the bottom of the door slides open and a couple of objects are pushed through. When the door doesn’t open, when he hears the footsteps receding, he lets his breath out. It’s funny, he thinks: a day before, he would have been embarrassed by the sob that follows as he leans against the wall, but now he only stifles it with a hand over his mouth and closes his eyes against the tears, the relief almost as painful as the fear.

“Foggy,” Matt says after a moment, and Foggy opens his eyes again. “What did they put through the slot?”

Right. Things. The things on the ground. Slowly he limps over.

One item is aluminum, light enough not to be useful as a bludgeon but strong enough that they won’t be able to break it, and it takes Foggy a moment to figure it out before it clicks. It’s a bed pan, and it’s clearly intended for Matt.

Abruptly he realizes that Matt can’t get up to use the seatless toilet, and feels simultaneously guilty about not even thinking about it before and absurdly grateful that Fisk clearly did. Then he shakes off the feeling of gratefulness and brings it over to Matt, who seems too relieved to even feel angry at Foggy.

The other items are a loaf of bread wrapped in a piece of brown paper which he balances on the foot of the mattress, and a small plastic jar with a piece of paper taped to it. On closer inspection it appears to be a jar of petroleum jelly, and the paper bears a short note.

Uneasily, Foggy pulls it off and opens it up.

_Nelson_ , it reads. _I suggest you prepare yourself for my next visit_.

Foggy can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe, and in a blank panic he crumples the paper and throws it in the toilet with the contents of the bed pan. After, he crawls back onto the mattress to nibble bread and let Matt try to soothe him, though he knows it won’t work.

“Well, at least it doesn’t look like he’s planning on starving us immediately,” Matt murmurs through a mouthful of slightly stale bread.

“How are your legs today?” Foggy asks after another couple of bites.

Matt frowns and then shrugs and says, “Still broken.”

Foggy waits another few beats, to see if Matt is going to spare him from asking what he has to ask, but when Matt shows no sign of saying anything else, he shuffles himself up so he’s no longer leaning against the wall and takes a breath.

“Matt,” he forces himself to say levelly, even though he knows Matt can hear his heart speed up. “What’s the plan here? How are we going to escape?”

Matt goes very silent and very still for a moment, and that same blank look as earlier passes over his face. Matt’s pulling himself together and Foggy thinks he might scream.

“I don’t know,” Matt whispers, eyes staring straight ahead, his face carefully empty. “Somebody may find us—I’m sure Karen is looking, but I don’t—I don’t know. I…I can’t fight us out with my legs like this, and I don’t know enough about where we are to get you out without me.”

“I’m not leaving without you,” Foggy rasps out, and as he says it he knows it’s true. “I’m not leaving you here.”

Matt smiles gently, and reaches out until he finds Foggy’s hand, and says, “Seems like a bit of a moot point right now.”

And that’s just it. They’re stuck here, and Fisk is going to be back, and they have no plan and all of a sudden Foggy can’t breathe again. The blank walls loom closer and closer, and he is gasping but it feels like he’s not getting any oxygen and the world is spinning and spinning and spinning.

“Foggy!” Matt exclaims in alarm. “Foggy! Are you okay? Foggy?!”

“Please,” Foggy gasps out, terrified and embarrassed simultaneously. “Please, Matt, please, please.”

The panic attack ends with Matt holding Foggy’s hand and rubbing his back as he blurts out the story of the note and the petroleum jelly between sobs, while Matt supplies a background litany of, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Foggy, this is my fault, I’m sorry,” and finally with Foggy laughing and sobbing at the same time because of course Matt thinks it’s his fault Fisk broke his legs and he can’t fight, and _they have no plan_.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s like Fisk is watching them.

Of course, he probably is, Foggy realizes when he thinks about it. That, or else the man just has a flawless instinct for timing. An instinct for how to hurt people. Foggy’s just barely gotten a hold of himself when Matt tenses and says, “He’s coming.”

It takes a fraction of a second for it to register for Foggy, he’s too keyed up for it to take longer, but that fraction of a second seems to last an eon. Matt’s sitting up, blank eyes wide, not with fear for himself but for Foggy, a grimace of pain faintly tugging at the corner of his mouth, hands mindlessly starting to reach for Foggy, to offer comfort or protection, to push him behind Matt.

God, he wants to weep for how much he wishes Matt _could_ keep him safe right now.

And then his mind snaps into action, and he’s fumbling for the jar, stumbling upright and pawing at his pants because fuck he doesn’t want to use the petroleum jelly but _fuck_ he might _die_ if Fisk fucks him again without it.

The thought of Fisk fucking him makes his breath catch, makes his heart stutter, but he doesn’t have time to think right now.

Instead, he manages to wrench his pants down and (after one millisecond of hesitation) start to work himself open, to try to get himself as ready as he can, to relax. Ha, as if that’s even _possible_ in a situation like this.

God, even with the petroleum jelly it _hurts_.

He’s nowhere near ready (as if he could possibly ever be ready to be raped) when the door grinds open, and for one crazy second he thinks about running, but Fisk’s bulk is filling the door and he wouldn’t make it five feet.

Fisk doesn’t even both with pleasantries, just strides into the room like he owns the joint (which Foggy supposes he does, and he finds himself desperately suppressing a burst of hysterical laughter), and grabs Foggy.

He can’t help but try to dodge, but Fisk is surprisingly fast for how big he is, and Foggy isn’t all that agile even in the best circumstances (which this certainly is not).

Foggy expects to be struck, but instead Fisk chuckles and shoves him against the wall. It’s not better than a punch.

“Did you get my present, Nelson?” Fisk rumbles as he reaches for Foggy’s pants and God none of this is real it can’t be it can’t be. Fisk is running a thumb over his entrance and Foggy feels the bile rising up in his throat, and then the larger man chuckles again.

“I see you learned your lesson quickly,” Fisk says in that flat voice of his, and Foggy bites his lip so hard he tastes blood.

And then Fisk is fucking him again and the world is whiting out in a whirl of static and he can’t _breathe_.

\----------------------------------

Matt is warm against him.

The cell is fucking _cold_ , but Matt’s body is warm and comforting against his side as he sits and shivers.

Foggy is curled (no, crumpled) on the mattress, his back against the corner, walls on either side, and Matt against his right side. The lights are too bright and the concrete walls are too cold and he smells like blood and pain and shame.

Intellectually, Foggy knows he’s probably panicking. He knows that each second probably isn’t supposed to feel separate from the ones before and after it, that time probably isn’t supposed to be fragmenting into a thousand jagged shards, that his hands probably aren’t supposed to be shaking uncontrollably.

He can’t even engage with what just happened, what Fisk just did, enough to consider it. He knows. He knows he was just raped, but every time he tries to confront the thought he finds himself being pulled under by the riptide of his psyche.

So instead he runs his fingers over Matt’s soft hair and thinks about how long he had wanted to touch him but hadn’t, ever since that first day in college.

He can almost bear to think about how Matt doesn’t seem to mind him touching him, before remembering that it’s only because Matt could hear what just happened to him. Matt probably just feels sorry for him and guilty, and letting Foggy touch him is his way of atoning, of trying to help comfort him. Foggy knows that he should stop letting his fingers tease through Matt’s hair once he realizes what’s going on, but he can’t seem to stop. It’s the only thing that’s centering him, that’s letting him breathe.

“Foggy,” Matt whispers, turning his face towards him. Foggy instantly stops touching him, forcing his shaking hands to his sides, biting his lip so Matt won’t hear how his breath catches at the end of the contact. He won’t, he won’t force Matt to let him touch him, no matter what, he _won’t_ use him like that. He won’t hurt Matt.

“No, no, it’s okay, you can keep doing that,” Matt says immediately, his voice laden with kindness and Foggy may cry just from the way the other man leans his head against his shoulder, from the gentle kiss that Matt places on his jaw. _You’re being stupid, Nelson_ , he chides himself, _Matt leaning against you is not a good reason to cry, of all the reasons you have right now_. But that’s not why he’s crying, not if he’s being honest with himself. It’s because this is all he wanted, all he’s ever wanted since their first day as roommates, and it turns out the only way he could ever get it was for Fisk to…for him to…

“You’re very brave,” Matt whispers against his shoulder, interrupting the thought that his brain can’t seem to process anyway. “I just—I wanted to say…you’re really brave, Foggy.” And what is he even supposed to say to that? It’s said so gently and Matt is being so kind and patient with him being useless and afraid, and it’s still not the words he wants to hear. So he closes his eyes and goes back to stroking Matt’s hair, and feels his hands shake a little less.

\------------------------------

Matt is getting worse.

After a rough period of sleep ( _fuck_ Foggy has begun to hate the constant dim light from the overhead lights, the feeling that time has entirely stopped) another package of food arrives, this time with some cheese along with the bread, and when Foggy limps over to pick it up he sees the look of raw pain on Matt’s face when he thinks he isn’t looking.  
After they eat, Foggy eases himself down the mattress (so fucking gingerly) and says, “We need to look at your legs, Matt.”

The look on Matt’s face is enough to confirm his fears.

Matt’s still got feeling in his toes, but his legs are swollen and bruised, and when Foggy does press his left leg lightly Matt yelps before snapping his mouth shut. Foggy’s not a doctor, but he’s pretty sure something is wrong, something worse than just a broken leg.

“Matt…” he whispers, not trusting his voice. “Matt, we have to get help. Your legs…they look really bad.”

“How?” Matt snaps, eyes more empty than usual. “How are we supposed to get help for me, Foggy? I can’t even keep _you_ safe, how am I supposed to get out of here and…and get to a hospital?”

“Matt,” Foggy replies, trying very hard not to start yelling. “I know you feel guilty about not stopping Fisk from…from…getting me, but _it isn’t helping_. We have to get you help. Help me, please, this _isn’t what I do_. We have to have a plan, and we have to make it _now_. This is what you do, please _help me_.” He brushes the tears off his cheek as he finishes, even though he knows Matt can’t see them but can probably still smell them.

Suddenly he notices the tears on Matt’s cheeks, too.

“I’m sorry,” Matt says quietly. “You’re right. I’m letting you down, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, Matt,” Foggy says, sitting down stiffly next to him and risking putting an arm around his shoulders to pull him closer. Matt doesn’t resist. “You’re not letting me down, that’s not what this is about, I just...don’t feel guilty, please? I just need your help, and we can fix this.”

Matt sniffles and nods against Foggy’s shoulder, and Foggy can’t be the one to fall apart right now, he _can’t_ , because one of them has to keep it together and get Matt’s legs fixed so they can get out.

\----------------------------------

They talk it over.

They try to think it through, like they would any defense case.

They consider it from all angles, bat scenarios around, debate repercussions of actions.

Nothing.

Nothing is what they come up with.

Karen’s probably looking for them, but there’s no telling when she’ll find them. Foggy won’t make it past Fisk and out the door, and even if he did, what then? They don’t know how to get out—Matt wasn’t unconscious when they brought him to the cell, but what with the legs he was a little distracted. And even if Foggy was willing to leave Matt, if he somehow did make it past Fisk, if Fisk was somehow stupid enough not to have any goons waiting outside the cell, if Foggy could somehow make it out of the building…Fisk would kill Matt.

Matt seems willing to debate that point, seems willing to think optimistically, until Foggy realizes that he is lying.

He doesn’t think Fisk would let him live. He just thinks that if Foggy got out it would justify him dying.

Foggy shuts down for a minute when he figures it out, has to get up off the mattress where they’ve been huddled, whispering. He limps over to the sink (it takes all of four paces), splashes water on his face, tries to breathe slowly, tries not to let the emotions out because if he lets them out he may not be able to stop.

“I’m not leaving you,” he says finally, when he feels like he can speak.

“It might be the only chance,” Matt says, eyes closed.

Foggy counts to ten, hoping the anger will dissipate. It doesn’t. Matt flinches almost simultaneously with Foggy’s bark of, “GodDAMN it, Matt, I’m NOT LEAVING YOU.”  
Matt looks stricken, his face (so fucking handsome even with two days of stubble, and what is wrong with him that Foggy can think about it at a time like this?) going blank and his shoulders abruptly tight. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but then he sits up straighter and tilts his head.

“Fisk is in the building. But he isn’t coming towards us.”

And _fuck_ Foggy’s stomach drops to the floor, he feels his heart start to flutter in his chest. He had honestly forgotten, if only for a little while, and it’s even worse than the time before.

A blankness fills him as he grabs the jar of petroleum jelly and he undoes the zipper on his pants (fuck but his clothes are gross). Intellectually, he knows what is coming, but his brain can’t even process enough to let him try to prepare himself mentally. As far as his brain is concerned, nothing is happening, nothing is going to happen. He’s not sure if it’s better or worse than the alternative.

“Matt,” he croaks out, before he pulls his pants down. “Please…please, can you plug your ears?”

The brunette nods and puts his fingers in his ears, and it’s not privacy, not really, but at least he can pretend that Matt doesn’t hear him grunt when he smears the first fingerful on, doesn’t hear the gasp he can’t quite bite back as he works himself open. He tries—tries so, so hard—not to think about what he’s feeling as he does it, but he can’t block out the faint pleasure behind the gentle ache of the stretch and the smooth movement of his slicked-up fingers and _what the fuck is wrong with him? He’s prepping himself to be raped and he’s getting hard from it_. And Matt is there and fuck this could have been _them_ , this could have been him with Matt, if the universe had an ounce of justice in it.

But he can’t think about it, he _can’t_ , because he can’t be broken right now, he has to be okay, for Matt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added angst to the tags because how on earth did I miss that when I was first tagging this?


	5. Chapter 5

Fisk keeps them waiting.

Foggy sits at the bottom of the mattress, watching the peeling paint of the door and straining his ears for sounds of Fisk approaching.

Matt, for his part, sits with his back against the wall, eyes open and staring blankly at the door along with Foggy.

He feels so empty that it takes him a while to register the tears rolling down Matt’s face, and when he does see them he isn’t sure what to do. Eventually, he compromises with a soft, “It’s okay, Matt, it’ll be okay.”

Matt grimaces, but doesn’t say anything. Foggy’s scared to rest his hand on his foot in case it hurts him so he hauls himself up to the head of the mattress and sits down, puts his hand on Matt’s head, and kisses his hair carefully.

“Really, it’ll be okay, it’s nothing. It’s just him trying to hurt us,” Foggy says, not allowing his throat to tighten around the words.

“He _is_ hurting you,” Matt whispers.

“Yeah,” Foggy agrees. It seems disingenuous to disagree. “But that’s it. He can’t change how much I care about you. He can’t change how much we love Karen. He can’t touch the stuff that matters.” There are noises out in the hall.

The tears are flowing free down Matt’s face now, and Foggy won’t cry, he _won’t_ have Fisk walk into the room when he has tears on his face, so instead he carefully places his hands on either side of the other man’s face, and kisses him gently on the forehead before standing to face the door with his back against the wall.

\----------------------------------

If anyone had asked Foggy before they were captured what he thought it would feel like to be raped for the third time in…however many days…Foggy probably would have laughed. Not because it was funny, of course, but because the thought of that happening would have been laughable, what with him being best friends with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen and all. It was dangerous being friends with Matt, but Matt was also dangerous.

Fisk strides in and grabs him, shoves him against the wall, rips his pants down his hips, and kicks his feet apart as he struggles against the massive hands on his hips and the bulk of the man behind him. This time, Fisk doesn’t talk. Foggy knows it would be braver not to say anything, to not give Fisk the satisfaction of hearing him talk, but he can’t help it.

“FUCK YOU,” he finds himself shouting as a hand presses against the back of his neck. “FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU.” Fisk doesn’t even bother to chuckle in response.

If someone had really pressed Foggy, after he laughed in response to the question, he would probably have said that he thought the third time wouldn’t be as bad.

He would have been wrong.

Fisk shoves himself inside, and it. It doesn’t hurt as bad as the previous times. He had more time to get ready this time, he supposes, or maybe he’s just getting used to the pain. But along with the burn and stretch and the ache, this time there is a faint hint of pleasure. And then Fisk really shoves, forces himself in to the hilt and.

He hits something. Foggy can barely hold back the grunt of surprise at the distinct pulse of…pleasure? Disgust? Horror?

Christ, what’s wrong with him?

Foggy wants to yell. At first from the sensation—not the pleasure, it’s not pleasure, it _can’t_ be—and then because it becomes obvious Fisk noticed the not-grunt. Foggy feels the other man’s hands tighten on his hips, and slowly Fisk is speeding up, is _pounding_ into that place, and Foggy does yell this time. He yells because it feels—not good, it can’t feel good, it can’t, it _can’t_ —but because he can feel Fisk’s length sliding in and out of him, hitting that spot again and again and again. It’s too much, it’s too hard and fast, and Foggy can feel himself getting hard, and he can’t fully choke back the—shout? Sob? Moan?

That does get a chuckle from Fisk, who reaches down and grabs Foggy’s dick.

“ _No_ ,” Foggy gasps as the other man’s hand closes around his half-hard cock. Fisk laughs in earnest this time, before rolling his hips to draw out another wordless gasp. The pressure of him pounding into Foggy’s ass is forcing his dick into the other man’s fist, and _fuck_ he’s getting hard and it feels good even though _it can’t it can’t it can’t_. Fisk keeps pounding into him, relentless and thick and sweating against his back, keeps fucking Foggy into his fist, so that he can’t escape from the feeling.

Foggy would give anything, _anything_ , not to come.

God hates him, though, so he does. He comes hard and sobbing into Fisk’s fist, whispering, _begging_ , “Please, _please_ ,” over and over again. He doesn’t know what he’s begging for, who he’s begging to.

Fisk shudders against him a few moments later, leaves bruises on his hips as he fills his ass with cum and then shoves Foggy off of his dick and lets him slump crumpled on the floor.

Fisk turns and stalks from the room, and Foggy has never wanted to be dead so much as he does right now.

\---------------------------

Working in Hell’s Kitchen, Foggy’s dealt with far more assault and rape cases than he would prefer to. But it’s always been…distant. It’s always been after the victim has been to the hospital or the police station or both, after they’ve taken a shower, after they’ve been home and changed their clothes and eaten food and drank some tea. It’s always been removed from the actual crime.

He’s never had to think about what it felt like for his clients to pull themselves up off the ground.

He’s never had to think about the sense of shame—however misplaced—that feels like a stain that will never wash off.

He’s never had to think about the fact it won’t be the last time.

He thinks about it as he crawls over to the toilet and throws up all the bread and cheese he ate an hour before.

He thinks about it as he pulls himself up to the sink and uses a piece of fabric ripped off of his undershirt to scrub and scrub and scrub until his skin is pink and painful. He considers stripping off his clothes and washing them too, but he can’t stand the thought of having his skin bare right now.

He thinks about it as he limps over to the mattress where Matt is silently tracking him.

“Are you okay?” Matt whispers as he slumps next to him, reaching out a hand to soothe him. Foggy can’t stop his flinch when Matt’s hand touches his shoulder.

“No, no, it’s okay,” he croaks when Matt quickly draws back, a look of concern and guilt and hurt all too obvious on his face. “I just…it just…”

“It’s okay, Foggy,” Matt says gently, returning his hand. “I’ll ask next time.”

Foggy lays down on the ratty mattress between Matt and the concrete wall of their cell under the constant, unvarying florescent light and stares at nothing as Matt strokes his hair, too tired to even cry.

\----------------------------

At some point, Foggy must have drifted off to sleep.

He wakes to Matt breathing heavily and shivering next to him. His eyes feel like they’ve been filled with sand, and he can taste the stench of his own breath. The florescent lights immediately hurt his eyes, and he would feel hungover if he didn’t know that the headache and his aching limbs were the result of Fisk and the cold air of the cell.

Foggy slowly rolls himself over, trying not to notice how painful even that movement is. Matt has his eyes closed, and he might be asleep. But he’s shivering violently, arms wrapped around himself and his shoulders hunched forward. His breathing sounds shaky and labored. Foggy knows that he’s grown used to a certain baseline level of fear over the past couple of days, but this…this makes him afraid. This makes him _terrified._

He reaches out and shakes Matt’s shoulder and whispers, “Matt, wake up. Wake up. Are you okay?”

Matt startles a little at his touch and raises his head listlessly, like he doesn’t really care what's happening.

“Foggy,” Matt croaks. “…‘m fine. Just cold.” He closes his eyes again.

Foggy reaches up and feels his brow. It’s burning hot under his palm.

_Oh God, oh God, Matt’s getting worse, Matt’s really sick. Matt’s really sick, and there’s nothing he can do._

Foggy stifles the feeling of panic, beats it back into a corner of his brain and refuses to look at it, because if he does then he won’t be able to think at all. Instead, he forces himself up and hobbles to the sink despite the ache between his legs, despite feeling unbearably filthy. He rips another strip from his undershirt and soaks it—thankfully the water is naturally freezing—and limps back to the mattress. He sits down heavily next to Matt, leans against the wall. Matt moans when the motion jars his legs slightly, but doesn’t open his eyes, just shivers and shivers and shivers.

Foggy hesitates for a moment, then strips his coat off (God it reeks, but at least it’s warm) and lays it over Matt. He huddles up against him, trying to help ease his shaking, and places the cold rag on his forehead. Matt whimpers at the cold and gasps what might be a sob, and it. It almost breaks Foggy’s heart.

He’s watching Matt dying, he realizes.

He’s watching Matt slowly dying, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it or even make it hurt less.

He’s watching Matt dying and he is _helpless._

Foggy finds tears trickling out of his eyes as he strokes Matt’s hair, brushes them angrily away, but more follow. He loves him. He loves the stubborn, kind, brilliant asshole lying unconscious next to him. _He has to help, he has to find some way to fix this, he has to save him._

He sits feeling utterly empty, utterly alone, utterly in love, utterly bereft, as his friend shivers and moans and lies dying next to him. He sits for an hour or a day, time utterly meaningless under the harsh, unchanging light of the florescent bulbs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof, folks, this one hurt to write. Please forgive me?


	6. Chapter 6

And then eventually it hits him.

He knew all along what it would take, to get help for Matt. He just wasn’t ready to listen to what his instincts were telling him, before. But now he knows what he has to do.

After what might be another five minutes, Foggy gets up from the mattress and re-wets the rag and puts it back on Matt’s forehead, before picking up the petroleum jelly from the sink and slowly, hesitantly, (unwillingly) unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down.

He preps himself carefully, feeling nothing but emptiness as he remembers the sensation of Fisk fucking into him the previous time. He has to be ready, whenever Fisk comes back. He doesn’t think about whether Fisk _will_ be coming back, doesn’t let himself consider that option. Instead, he washes his hands as best he can (God, the petroleum jelly is impossible to get off) and crawls back to Matt, props his back against the wall, and waits.

With Matt out he has no way of knowing if Fisk is in the building, or if he’s coming to the cell, so he is forced to be patient as he stares at the rusting metal door, changing Matt’s rag whenever his fever makes it warm. Matt is still shivering against him, making noises and whimpers occasionally.

Foggy distracts himself by murmuring to Matt. Telling him about his favorite adventures they’ve had (that one night they got Karen to do a shot of snake whiskey at Josie’s, that time they snuck into the faculty dinner, doesn’t mention the time Matt made out with him on a dare).

Telling him about how he felt when he discovered Matt was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen (surprised—no, shocked—and angry, and betrayed, and so proud, so admiring, _of course it was you, Matt, who else would it be?_ ).

Telling Matt about how much he means to him, that he doesn’t blame him that they’re here (even though he knows Matt blames himself), every good thing about Matt, everything that he loves about him (his wry smile, how he smells after a shower, how he always lets his beer bottle linger at his lips, how he has never once ever thought less of Foggy, even on their first day as roommates). He doesn’t—can’t—tell Matt how much he loves him, because that means he really is dying, and he can’t die, he _can’t._

Foggy finds himself choking back tears, angrily wipes them away again, silently tells himself to _Get it together, Franklin, fuck._

He sits there holding Matt’s hand, looking at the door, is about to get up and re-wet the rag, when he hears voices in the hallway.

_Oh God_ , he thinks, _This has to work, it has to, it will work, because it has to, it will, you can do this, Nelson, do it for Matt._

\-------------------

Fisk strides into the cell without looking left or right.

Foggy wants to think that he isn’t being cautious because he’s foolish, but he knows that Fisk doesn’t bother because he doesn’t have to be cautious. There is no threat in the cell, and Fisk knows it.

He pauses for a moment at the sight of Matt, shivering painfully on the mattress, filthy and bedraggled and dying. If he has any thoughts about it or even the slightest twinge of guilt, though, he doesn’t show it, and almost before Foggy can react Fisk has his massive fist in his hair and is pulling him off the mattress.

Foggy desperately suppresses a yelp of pain, and instead gasps out, “Fisk, wait! Wait, I need to talk to you!”

Fisk pauses for a second, before shoving Foggy against the sink and ripping his pants down.

_Oh God, it’s not working_ , Foggy thinks, feeling the panic rising at the touch of the other man’s hands. _I’m going to miss my chance and Matt is going to die._ He wants to scream at the rough hands holding him down, pulling at his clothes, at the feeling of the opportunity slipping away.

“Please,” he gasps out, not letting himself feel anything, concentrating every ounce of his being on the words he has to get out. “Please, Fisk, hear me out. I have a proposition for you.”

That does make Fisk pause.

“You saw Matt,” Foggy says before he can lose momentum. “He’s dying, Fisk.”

Fisk grunts and shifts behind him, and Foggy can’t help but imagine he’s looking back over to Matt.

“I…I want to make a deal with you. Please, help him, save him.”

Fisk’s chuckle sounds like two stones grinding together.

“I’m…content…to watch him die slowly,” the other man rumbles, and Foggy won’t vomit, he won’t, he won’t.

He has to say it. He knows that once it’s said it can’t be taken back, and he has to say it.

“I’ll do anything,” Foggy blurts out.

Fisk goes completely still.

Foggy waits. He can’t do anything else.

And then slowly the man behind him begins to laugh. The hairs stand up on his neck at the sound, as it grows and grows in the concrete cell.

Eventually it dies out, and Fisk reaches up and spins Foggy around and pins him to the wall, and he’s never been this scared, not ever (and he isn’t half as brave as Matt). The man is smiling like a storm cloud.

“Anything?” he says, his voice as empty as Matt’s eyes.

“Yes,” Foggy whispers. “Anything.”

The man (the monster) grins. “Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo! The angst continues!


	7. Chapter 7

Fisk still fucks him.

Still bends him over the sink and ruts into him roughly, so hard that Foggy can’t hold back his ragged gasps, can’t stop the tears trickling down his cheeks, so hard that it doesn’t matter how much Foggy tried to prep himself.

Fisk still finishes, thrusts speeding up until Foggy’s scared that he won’t be able to walk from the bruises he can already feel gathering on his hips and legs.

Fisk still shoves him off his dick with a grunt, doesn’t even bother to look over as Foggy collapses to the ground, still gasping, trying to breathe and failing.

He huffs a breath before walking over to the door, and Foggy can’t help the spike of panic and rage at the thought that he lied to him, that he’s going to let Matt die anyway.

“My men will come to collect you shortly,” Fisk rumbles. “If you resist, or try to escape, or even look at one of them wrong, they will kill him.”

 _Well, okay then,_ he thinks, but he can’t seem to open his mouth. Foggy apparently doesn’t have the capacity to respond, but it doesn’t look like he’s expected to. Fisk walks off purposefully, pulling the door tightly closed after him.

He wants to stay crumpled on the ground, but he can’t, not right now.

Painfully, he pulls himself to his knees and manages to half-crawl to the mattress, where Matt is lying blissfully unaware of what just happened, what’s about to happen.

“Matt,” he whispers urgently, voice rough from holding back yells (screams, he wanted to scream, he did scream). He swallows and gently shakes Matt’s shoulder, feeling like his heart is crumpling inside him.

Matt groans a little and moves, but it’s unclear if he is really aware of him.

Foggy will take what he can get.

“Matt, I have to go away for a while,” he says gently. He’s not sure if it’s a lie or not. _It could be forever_ , he thinks vaguely. _This could be the last_ … Time I ever see Matt, he doesn’t let himself finish, because the thought is too big for him to comprehend at the moment, and he’s pretty sure there’ll be lots of time to think it later.

“I got you help,” he forces himself to continue, holding Matt’s sweaty hand in his own, softly touching his face, still handsome under the grime and sweat and stubble that’s on the verge of being a beard. “They’ll fix your legs. It’ll be okay, Matt, I’ll fix this. You’ll be safe, you’re safe, you’re safe…” He shoves the sob that’s bubbling up in his throat down viciously, and squeezes Matt’s hand instead. “I’ll be gone for a while, won’t be able to help you. Take care of yourself, please, for me. Please get better, Matt, please…” _Get better so you can rescue me_ , he doesn’t say. _Please get better so Fisk won’t rape me anymore. Please get better, Matt, I don’t want to die._

He takes a moment and gets himself together. He would be memorizing every line, every angle of Matt’s face right now, but he already knows it by heart.

Instead, he satisfies himself with kissing Matt’s forehead and whispering, “I love you, Matt,” because that’s the one thing he hasn’t done yet, that he has to do before they take him away.

The door creaks, and he squeezes Matt’s hand one last time and then forces himself upright against the back wall, because he’s not facing these goons on his knees. Nameless toughs in matching suits grab him and half frog-march, half carry him out of the cell.

He doesn’t look back at Matt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a super short chapter, so I'm posting it early.


	8. Chapter 8

He must have gone away, in his head, for a while.

He’s not sure when exactly he comes back, just like he’s not really sure when he left. He no longer has any sense of time, of how long it’s been since Fisk kidnapped them.  
His new cell is even smaller than the previous one, roughly the size of a prison cell, with a small sink and toilet crowded on one side and a bunk on the other.

Foggy notices that he’s crumpled in the far corner of the bed, tucked back as far as he can get from the door. He has a vague memory of having his hands in his hair before he went away ( _dissociated_ , he tells himself, _dissociation, that’s what it’s called_ ), his eyes roving the room aimlessly, panic gently (lovingly) tugging at his diaphragm.

He isn’t sure if he wants to try to remember or not, but he’s scared (so scared) of the soft blankness that fills his head.

He can’t remember their faces, but he can still feel their hands.

The goons that threw him in the cell, that is.

And Fisk, always Fisk. He’s so afraid that he will never not be able to feel his hands on him, that he’ll die with the feeling of Fisk’s hands on him.

They shoved him past the steel door with the tiny viewing slit, kicked him behind his knees, in his stomach (there was nothing left, but that didn’t stop him retching), shaved his beard off (laughing, they were laughing and joking about it) and then pried his mouth open.

Told him that if he bit down, they’d pull out all of Matt’s teeth.

He didn’t bite down.

He thinks that maybe he should feel like sobbing now that he remembers, but the gaping emptiness inside of him is too deep to let anything out. Instead, he stares at the door with eyes as empty as Matt’s.

God, he wishes he could see Matt, make sure that what he’s buying with his body is actually being delivered.

Make sure Matt is still alive.

There’s a glass section in the wall, black and maybe 12 inches square. His eyes rest on it briefly, before turning back to the door. It’s probably Fisk watching him. Whatever it is, there’s nothing he can do about it. There’s nothing he can do about anything anymore.

\---------------------------

He’s not sure how long he sleeps, but when he wakes again his stomach is rumbling with hunger and he feels so filthy he could die, but he also feels a touch more human, a touch less exhausted. He feels strong enough to uncurl himself and to walk over to the sink and drink some water, ignoring how his entire body complains, the aches in his knees and his jaw and his ass.

He pauses to listen, considers pulling off his shirt to wash it (God, he can smell himself and it makes him want to gag), but he can’t stand the thought of being even a little naked when Fisk could come back any time.

He has to take a moment to calm himself at the feeling of the complete loss of time, of utter disorientation. _Time doesn’t mean anything here_ , Foggy tries to convince himself, _It doesn’t matter how much time has passed. I’m here until someone decides to let me out._

That in turn necessitates him trying to calm himself about the thought that maybe Fisk has forgotten about him and he’s going to slowly starve to death here.

There’s probably a panic attack in there somewhere, he thinks after, but the entire world goes kind of blurry for a while and it makes it hard to focus or remember anything.  
When it comes back into focus he’s still in the cell.

 _Nice, Foggy-bear_ , he thinks, _Definitely doing a bang-up job with the whole being calm thing_. Although on the plus(?) side, it seems like he’ll have plenty of time to practice.

There’s noises in the hall, and as he scrambles up from the cot he realizes with a jolt that he hasn’t prepped himself at all.

 _Fuck fuck fuck fuck_ , is all he can think in a litany as he scrambles to find the jar of petroleum jelly, as he tries to fumble it open, struggles to pull his pants down and God he can feel himself panicking because Fisk is going to fuck him dry and he isn’t sure he’ll be able to stand the pain.

The door grinds open ( _how heavy is the door?_ Foggy finds himself wondering irrationally) and Fisk steps through and Foggy’s going to die, he knows it now.

“Nelson,” Fisk rumbles, kicking the door shut and stepping forward.

Foggy’s standing there with his pants half off, jar of petroleum jelly in one hand, and if this wasn’t going to end with him raped and dead it might be a funny sight.

“Hi there, Fisk, you just caught me in the middle of something,” Foggy manages to gulp out, frozen against the back wall. “Can I just finish up here?” Fisk moves forward again, and it looks like that’s a no, then.

The other man grabs him by a shoulder and spins him around and slams him into the wall.

Fisk leans forward against his back, his face next to Foggy’s neck, his moist breath illogically smelling of mint. _Aren’t all supervillains supposed to have bad breath?_ Foggy wonders. “Your shithead superhero boyfriend fought my doctors,” Fisk growls into his ear.

Foggy feels his breath catch in his throat. So Fisk had kept his word. Of course, he’s going to pay the price for what Matt did, but he finds he doesn’t care.

Fisk pulls the jar from his hand and Foggy gulps, shuts his eyes tightly.

 _It’s worth it_ , he tells himself, trying to think about the fact Matt got help, not the pain that’s about to come. _It’s worth it._

But instead of pain, he’s greeted by the feeling of one of Fisk’s fingers, thick and heavy with petroleum jelly, circling his entrance before shoving in.

He gasps, but it isn’t entirely from discomfort.

 _No_ , Foggy thinks, _Please not this, don’t make me like it._

But Fisk is being careful, _why is Fisk being careful?_ , and he teases Foggy open slowly. Foggy can barely hold back the noises that are trying to escape his throat, and Fisk chuckles.

“That’s right, you can let it out,” he murmurs, voice heavy, and the finger twists inside of him and Foggy can’t stop the inarticulate sound that escapes from between his teeth. “Moan for me. I know you like it. You liked it before, didn’t you?”

 _No, that was my body_ , Foggy wants to yell. _I hate this, I hate you, I hate you, you fucking sicko._

“F-fuck you,” he gasps out instead. He doesn’t think he can manage more than that.

“All in good time.” Another finger joins the first, and it burns so good that Foggy wants to vomit. “Do you do this with him? Do you let him fuck you too—Daredevil, Murdock, I mean? Do you beg for his cock?”

Foggy can’t contain himself. “It’s not like that, you sicko, f-fuck you, fu-uck you.”

“Ah,” Fisk says with a satisfied grunt. “So he hasn’t touched you. I’m not surprised—you’re not much to look at, although your ass—” (his fingers twist inside Foggy and he can feel the blood rush to his already half-hard dick) “—is a work of art. Still, he probably—” (another twist of fingers and Foggy can’t stop from crying out softly, from bracing his forehead against the cold cell wall) “—wouldn’t fuck a whore like you even if you were anywhere in his league.”

The thing is, Foggy knows what Fisk’s trying to do. He’s done the same thing during cross-examinations—make the subject angry, find their weaknesses. He knows it’s just words, and that Fisk is an evil psychopath, and that his words don’t matter. But it’s too close to home, and he’s hard from Fisk’s fingers, and Foggy doesn’t have any defenses left.

As Fisk pulls his fingers out and shoves his cock in, he whispers, “That’s okay, Nelson. Not everyone can be a saint like Murdock. The world needs desperate sluts too.”

If tears make their way out of Foggy’s eyes as Fisk fucks him, as his pleasure grows and he finally gasps out an orgasm with the other man’s fist around his dick, well, it’s not like Matt has to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added another tag for dissociation in this chapter. It's a fairly minor mention, but wanted to make sure it was tagged.


	9. Chapter 9

What might be a week or ten days later he’s still in the cell.

They haven’t forgotten him, is the good part. The bad part is that they remember him.

He’s gotten pretty used to the taste of cock in his mouth. He’s also pretty used to the feeling of Fisk shoving him down into his mattress and riding him like a rented goat or whatever the saying is. He’s gotten pretty used to the knowledge that sometimes his body chooses to respond to what Fisk does to him. He hasn’t gotten any more comfortable with that knowledge.

He hasn’t gotten any better at being Zen about this whole…situation.

If he chooses to look at the situation head on (and usually he doesn’t, usually he just can’t), he’s so angry, so fucking full of rage, it scares him. It makes him want to punch the walls (made him actually punch the walls at one point, made him bruise three fingers and all of his knuckles, and he screamed from having to support himself with that hand when Fisk came back and fucked him from behind). It makes him want to refuse to eat, makes him want to bite off Fisk’s fucking dick, it makes him want to do _something, anything_ even if it hurts him, even if the only one it hurts is himself.

Foggy also thinks he might be going a little crazy.

He’s sung every song he can remember the words to, just to hear something, to hear anything at all beyond the mechanical buzz of the AC or (sometimes) Fisk’s heavy, metallic voice.

He’s sleeping what must be ten or twelve hours a day, just so he doesn’t have to be conscious.

One time, he hallucinated that Marci was in the cell with him. Even as a hallucination she could’ve been more sympathetic, frankly, and Foggy’s a touch indignant that his own psyche can’t send him anything better.

If he’s honest, he’s a little sad his psyche didn’t send Matt, even if it wouldn’t really be him.

God, fuck, he needs to know how Matt is doing. He needs to know if he’s still alive.

The worry, the uncertainty, the fear—it’s eating him from the inside, and if he doesn’t find out soon it may just kill him.

There’s noises in the hallway.

He scrambles up off the mattress.

The door groans open, and Fisk steps in.

Before Fisk can say anything (before Foggy can lose his courage), he blurts out, “Is Matt okay?”

Fisk actually looks surprised when he speaks, but it quickly turns to a darker expression. Foggy would feel afraid at the shift, but it’s too late to do anything about it.  
“Do you think you’ve earned an answer to that question?” Fisk rumbles back, face twisting darkly.

“We made a deal, Fisk, and I want to know if you’re keeping up your end of the bargain,” Foggy snaps back, suddenly so angry, so furious, that he can barely contain it. Fisk reaches out to grab him, but Foggy’s expecting it, and somehow he manages to dodge.

“Is Matt alive?” he yells. “Tell me!”

There’s nowhere for him to go from where he is; the cell is too small to allow for more than one evasive maneuver. Sure enough, Fisk gets his meaty hand around his arm a moment later, but Foggy’s expecting that too, and he throws a punch that might accurately be described as several notches below “wild.” To his great surprise (and Fisk’s too) it connects, landing with a hard slam against Fisk’s face.

It hurts, but Foggy finds himself smiling, even as Fisk responds by slamming his massive fist into his cheek, even as he collapses gasping to the floor in response.

Fisk kicks him, and kicks him again. Stomps on his hand.

Christ, he can feel his finger snap. It’s uncomfortably close to the feeling of breaking a piece of celery, and he would laugh, he is laughing, can’t stop laughing.

Fisk pauses in his assault and snarls, “Why are you laughing, Nelson?”

Foggy doesn’t have enough air to respond between wheezing gasps of laughter. It hurts, it hurts _so much but he can’t stop_. He just lets himself collapse onto the floor and shake and shake and shake from the giggles.

Apparently Fisk doesn’t get the joke, though, because he punches Foggy full in the face and holy shit his nose must be smeared across his face now. The blood is gushing and the pain makes his vision white-out briefly and he’s still laughing and laughing and laughing because he’s going crazy in this little cell where the lights never go out and he hasn’t washed his clothes in a week at least and he gets raped every day, and every day he loses a little bit more of himself.

Fisk must leave at some point because when he finally stops laughing the cell is empty and the door is closed and he’s no closer to knowing if Matt is alive. The final giggles lurch into sobs that he can’t choke down any better than the laughter, and he curls up in the corner and weeps through the pain of his broken nose and broken hand and his broken heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter. When I originally wrote this is was as one single continuous document that was like 60 pages long. For my own sanity/not having to do the HTML for all that text in one shot I broke it up, but (real talk) I did a super sucky job of dividing chapters. Trying to post more often to make it up to y'all. Please forgive!!


	10. Chapter 10

They serve him a meal of thin soup with vegetables and meat in it, and it’s the best thing he’s had to eat in days. He knows that Fisk is planning something—this is _Fisk_ after all—but for about five minutes all he can think about is the soup and how nice it is to actually be eating protein and something that tastes like it probably grew in the ground at some point.

Despite his aching head and hand and body, the lights that never change, he sleeps soundly—no dreams of Matt alone and dying, no hallucinations of Marcie or Karen or his mother or sister—and wakes up to the sound of someone walking down the corridor.

He’s had enough time to figure out what Fisk sounds like when he walks, and this isn’t him.

Well, it looks like he’s getting hired goon cock for breakfast then.

He steels himself, tries to go away so he doesn’t have to be here in his head when it happens, and he’s almost ready for it, almost ready for another episode in the long parade of violations.

And then the lights click out.

It’s utterly black in the cell, utterly, utterly dark.

Foggy immediately knows what they’re doing.

“No!” he yells, pushing himself up and shuffling to the door. “No, please, turn it back on!”

There’s no response and oh God they’ve already left and the darkness is closing in and suffocating him.

“Please!” he begs, not even caring that he’s embarrassing himself. “Please, don’t leave it off, please, I’ll do anything!”

No response.  
No response.  
No response.

He’s alone in the dark, in the inky blackness, and he tries to tell himself that this is Matt’s reality every day, and maybe this’ll give him super senses too? But he knows that it won’t, he knows it, and his heart is fluttering so fast he’s scared it will beat right out of his chest. He can’t breathe, and he eventually collapses stiffly, gasping against the door and sobbing as the nothingness presses in around him.

He thinks he makes it an hour before he starts screaming.

\---------------------------------

It actually isn’t that long before they turn the lights back on.

Maybe a day, Foggy thinks, although time has even less meaning with the lights out than it did with the unwavering yellow florescent glow.

When they turn them back on they catch him dozing, and initially it’s painfully bright, and he’s frowsy and reeking of fear and his face and side and hand ache.  
And then he comes-to fully, and realizes what the lights mean. He scrambles up and quickly preps himself, reveling a little in the ability to use his eyes (and you’d better believe he feels a little twinge of guilt when that makes him think of Matt).

Fisk is coming.

He can hear his heavy, ponderous footsteps coming down the hall. The door grinds open.

Foggy can’t help but close his eyes briefly, trying to cope with the knowledge of what’s coming, trying to…

He doesn’t know what he’s trying to do.

“Nelson,” Fisk says in that _voice_ of his.

Foggy doesn’t respond. He knows he should say something, that he always has something to say, but he can’t, not right now.

“I trust you enjoyed that little change of pace?” Fisk smirks, his eyes as hard as steel and sharp as a knife. “I certainly enjoyed it when you decided to fight back for a change, even though it goes against our agreement. In return, I’ve got a present for you.”

Foggy finally finds his voice.

“If it’s your dick, that’s okay, I don’t want it,” he manages to rasp out. “Besides, it’s a little bit small and they don’t take returns.” Fisk chuckles.

“No, not this time.” Fisk presses a button on a small remote control he holds in his hand, and the blank glass in the wall that he noticed when he first came into the cell flickers to life.

It looks like a closed circuit television view of an operating theater. There’s a man on a table who looks like…

“So you can see what disobedience gets you,” Fisk says, sounding irrationally relaxed, as if this is a conversation he has regularly. Foggy refuses to think about whether this _is_ a conversation he has regularly.

He’s also distracted by the screen. The picture’s grainy, and the lighting isn’t great, but it’s Matt. It’s definitely Matt, and he knows he should be paying attention to Fisk but he can’t tear his eyes away. Matt’s alive, _he’s alive_ , Foggy would cry from relief just from that, if it wasn’t for the room he’s in, and Fisk’s comment. He can feel the certainty that something terrible is going to happen, and it’s choking—it’s strangling him.

He forces himself to turn back to Fisk.

“What’s happening to him?” he whispers. “What are you going to do to him?”

Fisk takes a step forward and Foggy flinches, but he only pats Foggy on his cheek ( _fuck_ it hurts, even just a soft tap), turns on his heel, and leaves.

\-----------------------

It’s a nightmare.

It’s worse than a nightmare.

He thought it was bad before: the isolation, the fear, the uncertainty, the hunger, the _rape_. God, he was so fucking stupid, and he would give just about anything to go back in time and stop himself before he threw the first punch at Fisk.

Foggy has no choice but to sit and watch as they pull out Matt’s fucking finger nails from his left hand.

Well, he does have choice, of course he has a choice. There’s no sound with the screen, and he could shut his eyes, pretend like he never saw the raw anguish and pain on Matt’s face, saw his mouth as he screamed and screamed and screamed (even though he can’t hear it).

But he can’t do that to Matt, not when it’s his fault that his friend is suffering in the first place.

Foggy owes it to Matt to witness what his pointless act of rebellion resulted in. _How could he be so fucking stupid?_

At some point Matt doesn’t have any more fingernails left on that hand, and the doctors (?) leave the room. It’s just Matt, strapped to the table, shaking and gasping and shaking some more, thin streams of blood dripping from his fingertips.

Foggy thinks that maybe he should console himself that at least Matt’s legs are in casts, that at least they’ve stopped torturing him, but he can’t. He knows as well as Matt that they could be back any second.

Almost simultaneous with that thought, his cell door grinds open again, and Fisk steps back in. Foggy knows he’s a sight—disheveled and reeking of sweat and fear, tears still sliding down his cheeks, eyes wide—but he doesn’t care.

“What did you think of our new show?” Fisk rumbles, looking amused at Foggy’s appearance.

He says nothing. His mouth and fists got Matt into this, and he will not let Matt be hurt again.

When it becomes obvious that he’s not going to speak, Fisk steps forward and sits down on his mattress. It would be bold, _arrogant_ , but Fisk knows perfectly well that Foggy won’t do anything.

“I imagine you’re currently wondering how to prevent your boyfriend from losing the nails on the other hand,” Fisk says casually. Foggy looks down and nods. Fisk smiles. Foggy doesn’t see it, but he can feel it, can hear it.

“You’re going to give me the best blowjob I’ve ever had in my life, just like the whore you are. And if you do a good enough job, he gets to keep those fingernails. You give it less than 110%, you even _think_ about biting me, I will cut off one of his fucking feet.”

Fisk needn’t have even made the threat. Foggy’s already on his knees, facing Fisk.

\----------------------

It takes longer than it should.

It’s not like Foggy hasn’t gotten in a fair amount of practice giving BJs to Fisk’s goons over the past…however many…days. But fuck, Fisk takes longer than all of them, and is even rougher.

Foggy starts by unbuttoning Fisk’s pants and pulling out his cock, and _God, it’s just as big as it always feels_.

But he can’t be scared, he can’t hesitate, can’t let anything else happen to Matt, so he pumps it twice and then takes it in as far as he can before he gags. His nose and face ache dully, but he tells himself it doesn’t matter. Fisk makes a small noise of approval, so he begins to fuck his mouth with Fisk’s dick, sucking and tonguing it.

Fisk seems content to let him continue, but doesn’t seem to be getting any closer to completion, and as his jaw begins to lock up Foggy feels his first twinge of fear.

In desperation, he pulls back after a bit and starts to pump with his good hand as he also sucks. Fisk makes another noise of approval, but _still doesn’t seem any closer_ , and after another minute or two Foggy’s starting to have trouble shoving back his panic. If he doesn’t do this right, if he can’t get Fisk off, then in the best-case scenario Matt’s probably going to lose the nails on his right hand as well. Worst-case scenario, Fisk cuts off Matt’s foot, and they don’t escape and he never sees Matt again.

Fisk seems to know he’s panicking. His dick gives a noticeable twitch, and suddenly he’s reaching out and grabbing two fistfuls of Foggy’s hair. Then the real fun starts.

Fisk abruptly drags Foggy down onto his dick, and starts to fuck his throat. Foggy can barely resist the impulse to bite down as he somehow manages to suppress his gag reflex and ignore the sensation as he starts to choke.

It’s kind of a blur from there.

Foggy is definitely not getting enough air, that much he knows. He knows his eyes are watering at the unwelcome intrusion into his throat. He knows Fisk is grunting above him, pulling his head harshly back and forth, faster and harsher and _faster_ and _harsher_.

And then it’s over and he thinks he’s going to die, swallowing in desperation against how much he wants to gag, wants to vomit, sobbing in gasps of air once his mouth is clear, and then simply sobbing because he can’t—he just _can’t_ —be strong right now.

Fisk laughs, and says, “Looks like Daredevil keeps his foot for now,” and leaves, like he does this every day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doing a little reorganizing of how chapters are set up in new posts, so the overall number of chapters may change from what it originally was. But don't worry! All the text will still be there!


	11. Chapter 11

If time actually mattered, he wouldn’t even be able to hazard a guess at how long he stays curled in the corner crying.

It doesn’t matter though, so he takes all the time he wants to sob roughly into his arms and knees, throat burning from use and eyes burning with tears, nose and hand still aching.

 _I just want to go home_ , he thinks dizzily as reality begins to flicker a little. _I just want to go home, I just want to go home, I just want to go home._

He just wants to be home, drinking a beer, maybe eating dinner with his sister and his mother, or lying on his couch playing “Angry Birds” or chatting with Matt and Karen. He just wants to be able to see the sun or the moon or even the street lights, to smell the lavender plant Marcy gave him that he has out on the fire escape. He wants to know what the weather is like outside. He wants to wear clean clothes. He wants to be able to breathe without feeling like his ribs are made out of cement. He wants this cell to not be real.

The thought of being home, of how _much_ he wants it, makes him feel physically sick. It makes him want to scream, want to pull his hair out, to scratch his skin until it bleeds, if only so he can localize the emotion, so he can stop it from eating him up like an empty, gaping void that he’ll never come back from.

\------------------------------

It ends eventually, but it doesn’t end with him at home.

At some point, he crawls back onto his bed and sits and stares forward blankly, too exhausted and empty to cry any more.

He realizes the television feed is still playing as he stares into space, and he can’t help but look. It’s not of the operating theater any more, but the cell where he and Matt had first been locked up.

Matt’s there sitting, on the mattress and clasping his damaged hand to his chest, eyes open and empty as always, but glazed over now.

As soon as Foggy realizes what he’s seeing, he scrambles forward and looks closer. The screen is fuzzy and the image is grainy, but it’s Matt he’s looking at. He’s not sure if Fisk meant to leave the screen on, or whether a technician simply forgot to turn it off, but he can’t stop staring.

Matt’s not moving, and for a moment he thinks the image is frozen, but then Matt shifts back into the corner and cradles his hand a little closer. For some reason, that small shift almost kills Foggy, seeing Matt in pain, seeing him alone and trapped and not able to keep himself safe.

Foggy presses his hand to the glass, as if he can somehow force comfort through the television, as if he can somehow tell Matt that he’s watching.

It only gets worse the more he looks. Matt is clearly almost totally immobilized by the casts, and when he gets water, he has to awkwardly push himself across the floor on his ass, and then lift himself up to the sink by arm strength. It’s painful to watch, and Matt’s ginger movements make it clear enough that it’s painful to do as well. Matt manages to make it back to the mattress, and curls up in Foggy’s coat, pulling his body as small as he can make it against the cold. His heart feels like it’s being twisted in a vice.

He can’t stay in this cell. He has to get back to Matt. He has to do whatever it takes to get back there and help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, the next chapter is going to be a chunker to make up for how short this one is.


	12. Chapter 12

They come in and shave his beard (now a couple days old) the next morning. At least, he assumes it’s morning. He’s found it’s easier not to worry too hard about applying the right labels, when there’s no way to know if they’re accurate or not.

So he decides to think of it as morning, when the goons barge into his cell and order him to get on his knees.

He hasn’t had any sleep, not really, not when he could watch Matt. There was no telling when they’d realize they had left the monitor on, when he’d lose him all over again. So he’s frowsy and exhausted and just wants it to be over with already, when the goons stomp into the cell.

There’s two of them, both bulky, and either one of them is far more than a match for Foggy.

He’s too tired, far too tired, to fight, and they don’t even have to tell him to look at the ceiling and to hold still before they smear his face with shaving cream and scrape his stubble off with a plastic safety razor.

He almost welcomes it, and what does it say about him that that’s where he’s at now? It’s the only time he feels anything close to clean (most of the time he feels filthy, or just plain itchy, just like he did when he had that awful goatee in grad school). It’s almost worth it, what comes next, just for the chance to feel like himself ( _like the Foggy that existed outside of the cell, before_ ) for five minutes.

But then the next arrives, and it’s not worth it after all. Goon #1 wipes his face off with a cold towel, and then grabs his chin ( _fuck_ but it still hurts from Fisk’s beating).

“What’ll it be, faggot? Your mouth or your ass, your call,” Goon #1 growls. He turns to look at the other goon and adds, “From what Fisk says, he’s been giving it about half-effort with his mouth before.”

Foggy looks at the floor.

He hates this. He hates this so much, that they’ve started trying to make him complicit in his own rape. He knows how it works. If he answers, he’ll know in some small way that it’s his fault, what they do to him. If he doesn’t answer, they’ll just hit him and then take him as roughly as they can, and the outcome will be the same.

He thinks hard about answering this time, but he’s not there yet.

He can’t let them know how close he is to breaking. He can’t break. For Matt.

“No preference, then?” Goon #1 asks, sounding over-interested. He turns to the other one and grins, “Dealer’s choice it is!”

They laugh, and before he even has time to register it his pants are down to his ankles and he’s bent over on the cold floor.

It’s gotten to be familiar enough over the past weeks (?) that Foggy has started to tune out the particulars of this part of the process. Not that he hadn’t had his fair share of sex in college, but back then it had been…different. He remembers, in a vague sort of way, that sometime long before this he had loved this part of the process. He had loved the intimacy and the trust and the anticipation that went along with shedding clothes and touching and eventually the sex itself.

He doesn’t love it now.

The thought of how much he had relished the feeling of baring himself with his partners makes him want to gag. Almost the same instant he remembers, he tries to force himself to forget, to put up a shield between the sex he’s had in the past and the rape he’s about to experience now.

It frustrates him that some days (today, yesterday, every single day) he has trouble remembering the difference between sex and rape. He hates that as he feels Goon #1 start to work his way into him he can sense himself responding, can feel the tightening across his groin, the subtle lick of pleasure. He would happily carve that pleasure out of himself if he were able, even if it meant he could never enjoy sex again, if doing so meant that he didn’t have to enjoy this. If it meant that his body wouldn’t betray him.

And _God_ if he could be anywhere else he would be. He tries to concentrate on his breathing, on steadying the rhythm of his gasps and whimpers until he’s steadied himself, until he feels like he’s floating. Almost abstractedly he observes the room, the goons, himself. He can feel unwilling tears trickling down his nose, can feel the steady rock of the goon behind him, but it’s distant, like it’s happening to someone else.

Foggy can’t help but wonder if this is what it’s like for Matt when he’s fighting. Whether this is what it feels like when he’s concentrating so hard that he can’t feel pain, or that the pain simply doesn’t matter.

A change in the sensations jerks him back into his body. The goon (now Goon #2, he realizes, and thinks hazily _When did that happen?_ ) is fucking into him slowly, _salaciously_. Drawing his cock out and then pushing it back in, and each time he’s hitting some spot that has lights blooming in front of Foggy’s eyes, has him biting back groans, has him forcing his hips to be still. Forcing his hips to be still because _he shouldn’t be enjoying this_. He shouldn’t be enjoying this, and there must be something wrong with him that he’s hard, achingly hard, and trying not to respond, and Foggy wishes he was dead because surely it must be better than this _torture_.

He tries to force himself back into his breathing, but he can’t seem to find a way back out of his head. He’s trapped, and the only thing that exists in the cell with him is the feeling of Goon #2 slowly taking him apart.

He speaks. He can’t help it.

“ _Please_ ,” Foggy grunts before he can force himself to silence. “ _Fuck, **please.**_ ”

Goon #1 laughs and says, “Can you believe it? Faggot fucking loves this. I bet he’d beg us to let him suck our cocks right now.”

Goon #2 laughs as well but doesn’t respond beyond speeding up his pace an iota and whispering, “Such a slut!” in Foggy’s ear before biting him on his neck.

He knows it shouldn’t matter what anyone here says to him, he knows they’re only out to hurt him, but somehow the comment snaps something inside of him, shatters something small and important and made of glass.

“Beg for it, slut. I can do this all day, and I’m not going to stop until you do,” Goon #2 snarls softly before nipping at his neck again.

Foggy knows how this game should go. He should keep his stupid mouth shut, because no matter how big the other man’s ego is, he can last longer than Goon #2. But he wants this to stop, he wants relief, he wants…he wants…

“Please,” Foggy chokes out, instantly hating himself. But it’s like a dam has broken, and after the first word he can’t stop. “ _Please please, fuck, **please.**_ ”

“Tell me how much you like it,” Goon #2 grins, thrusting a little harder and making Foggy gasp back a moan.

“Please, I need it, I w-want your cock, _please_ , please fuck me, please, fu-fuck me, f-fuck m-me, f-uuu…” He hates himself. He hates himself and he can’t stop. He needs this, he needs it and he needs it to end.

That seems to be what Goon #2 is waiting for, and before he can think the other man is pounding into him, fast and hard and (before he can stifle the thought) good. The man reaches around and grabs Foggy’s dick and begins to pump, and before he can even register it he’s coming so hard the world whites out.

Through his haze he feels Goon #2 finish and pull himself out, stand up, and leave with the other goon, both of them laughing and joking. Goon #1 turns back as he leaves and tosses Foggy a blanket.

“You stink, slut. Clean yourself up if you don’t want us to do it for you,” and with a blown kiss and a wink he locks the cell door back into place.

\-------------------------------

He doesn’t think about it.

It’s too much. As much as Foggy can’t stand to look at anything about his life too closely right now, this, _this_ is so much worse.

So he doesn’t let himself think about it.

Instead, he forces himself to undress, to wrap himself up in the blanket the goons left, and to wash his clothes in the cold water of the sink, and then to wash himself. ( _To wash off the shame_ , Foggy doesn’t let himself think). He knows he has nothing left to lose.

By the time he’s done, he’s shivering and huddled up on his cot, but at least he’s physically clean.

The screen still shows Matt in his cell, and Foggy concentrates on that instead of the world around him.

Matt isn’t doing much, but he seems to be muttering to himself. For a second hope spikes in Foggy’s chest, that Matt’s got a plan and he knows Foggy can see him and is trying to communicate with him. But then it clicks. He’s not trying to communicate with Foggy, he’s reciting a rosary, empty eyes closed and his perfect mouth shaping each word carefully.  
Without any warning, he stops. Foggy leans forward to look closer at the screen.

The door opens and the goons, who must still reek of sex (of _Foggy_ ), step into the room. It’s a nightmare. It has to be a nightmare. Foggy is so tense he can feel himself shaking, and he can’t look away.

Matt points his face in the general direction of the goons, eyes blank as always. They step forward and Matt tenses, asks some question that Foggy can’t interpret without sound. They don’t seem to respond, and reach for him with the same safety razor as they had used on Foggy. Matt asks the question again, looking a little angrier, but the goons only reach out to grab his arms. Matt sits up a little with the expression on his face that says he’s concentrating, that says he’s about to do something stupid and dangerous, and Foggy suddenly realizes that Matt’s about to try to fight them. He moves like lightning, and he manages to bring one goon down with just his hands, with one hand that’s missing all its nails. And then Foggy’s view is blocked by the broad back of Goon #2, by several more goons that rush into the cell. There’s a flurry of movement, and he can’t see what’s happening, just that the goons have closed in, seem to be holding Matt down, seem to be kicking him and hitting him and they’re going to _kill_ him.

“ _No_ ,” Foggy hears himself gasp, unable to do anything except watch, utterly, utterly helpless. “ _No, no, no, no, no, please, not Matt, no_.” He had known he could keep Matt safe with his body, but he hadn’t thought about how good Matt is at getting himself hurt, apparently even with two broken legs.

Thankfully— _thankfully_ —the goons don’t kill him. They don’t even kick more than a bare-minimum of shit out of him, don’t even target his legs in their casts. They just pin him and grab his head and shave off his beard. And then…

…it’s a hammer. They have a hammer.

Foggy feels his heart stop for a second, and before he can think he’s running to the cell door, pounding and shouting and begging, doing anything he can to get their attention, to distract them from Matt and whatever they’re going to do with that hammer.

Nothing. No one responds.

In despair, Foggy turns to look back at the screen and it’s just in time to see Matt’s desperate face and his thrashing body held down by four gigantic men, to see them bring the hammer down on Matt’s middle and ring fingers on his left hand, to see him scream. Foggy screams too. He can’t help himself, can’t choke down the sound of rage and heartbreak and horror. He sinks to the floor against the door, shaking as the goons give Matt one more kick and then leave.

\--------------------------------

Days pass, and nothing new happens except for an endless train of violations by the goons, the occasional meal or shave, and watching Matt on the screen. Watching his bruises turn dark, watching him gingerly hold his hand with the broken fingers, watching him mutter his rosary, and (once) watching him curl up in his corner and cry.

Foggy’s going crazy.

Before, he hadn’t been sure about it. He’s sure about it now.

He’s seeing lights flickering in the corners of his vision, and he’s started waking up to the sound of his own screams.

It usually takes him several seconds to realize he’s the one screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody who has commented so far, you folks are the wind beneath my wings. Thank you for all the love uwu


	13. Chapter 13

It’s almost a relief when Fisk comes back.

Foggy estimates it might be eight or nine days after the goons break him. He hasn’t broken again since, but he and the goons both know it’s only a matter of time, and they like to taunt him.

Each time, it takes another small chip of him away.

Fisk doesn’t even both to mention it.

And why would he, Foggy idly wonders when he strides into the room. He knew it would happen eventually; it was as inevitable as the pain he’ll be experience any moment.  
Before, though, he has to try to do something.

Foggy knows that he isn’t going to be able to survive by himself for forever, and neither is Matt. He’s already caught himself scratching at his skin until it is red and drops of blood dot his thin blanket, but he can’t seem to stop. It’s the only sensation he gets to control for himself.

Matt’s even worse. He sits for hours at a time now, not moving. Foggy watches him sit, without a change in expression, without blinking or twitching, cradling his damaged hand against his chest, without even saying a rosary. Every day, Foggy is more and more terrified about what it means.

So when Fisk shoves the door open, Foggy drops to his knees and stares at the floor.

Fisk pauses at that. Foggy had allowed himself to hope that he would. He wets his lips and speaks.

“Fisk,” he says levelly. “I want to go back to Matt.”

Fisk makes an incredulous noise.

“Are we done with our arrangement, then?” he eventually growls, and Foggy can hear him shift his bulk slightly, looming with unspoken threat.

“No.”

“Then you’re not going back to your boyfriend,” Fisk says simply, as though the matter is entirely decided and no further discussion is necessary.

“Tell me what I need to do to go back to him,” Foggy responds, letting his hair shield his face, his eyes. He’s staring so hard at the floor he feels like he might set it on fire. He’s gotten good at not thinking, but this is pushing him almost beyond what he can endure.

Fisk pauses again, then turns and leaves with a laugh.

Foggy stays kneeling, staring at the floor, empty and exhausted.

\------------------------------

He doesn’t bother to move once Fisk leaves. What point is there in moving?

Foggy doesn’t cry. He had known this would be what happened, had never expected success, and there’s no point in getting upset or angry or sad about something he knew wouldn’t work.

He’s a little confused by the feeling of moisture around his eyes.

It turns out it’s for the best he stayed down, though, since Fisk comes back about fifteen minutes later.

The other man walks over and grabs his hair and lifts his face up toward the fluorescent lights, the lights that never change and that he sees in his dreams now. Foggy lets himself be moved. He knows what happens if he fights.

“You fuck him,” Fisk says without preamble. “We tie him down and you fuck him hard, you fuck him mean, just like we fuck you, and you do it without saying anything to him, then you get to stay with him. Take it or leave it, Nelson.”

Foggy doesn’t hesitate. The point for hesitation has passed.

“Yes.”

Fisk smiles like the icicles that hang from buildings in the winter: sharp and cold and murderous.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: brief (one sentence) mention of suicidal ideation. Have also added it to the tags, just in case.

They don’t give Foggy time to second-guess his decision.

Fisk sweeps from the room and after a moment two goons come in and drag him to his feet. As they frog-march him through the expressionless, brutal concrete hallways he sees a number of other goons walking in the same direction ahead of them. Some are chatting or laughing, smiles emblazoned across the faces of men whose cocks he’s sucked (that he’s had to suck, he corrects himself lethargically—the difference is beginning not to matter, or maybe he’s just forgetting what the difference is).

He looks down at the floor in front of his feet so he doesn’t have to meet any of their eyes. He tries to count the distances and twists and turns, so he can tell Matt and they can escape, but the sick horror clenching at his gut makes it impossible to keep track. He hopes Matt will (that he _can_ ) forgive him.

They pause outside of a heavy metal door set into the concrete wall. There’s muffled noises coming from the room behind the closed door.

Fisk is waiting, like a tsunami about to inundate a village. Foggy briefly (inevitably) entertains the fantasy that the sounds are Matt fighting off the goons, that he’s about to come bursting out of the cell door and kick Fisk’s ass and grab Foggy like the fucking damsel he knows he is and that they’ll ride off into the sunset on a pair of white horses.

“Are we clear about our bargain, Nelson?” Fisk grinds out, interrupting the fantasy right as he and Matt are at the part where they get burgers and milkshakes and drink all the liquor in New York.

Foggy looks up at the other man.

“Murdock is in there, and my men have him restrained. You’re going to go in there and fuck him. You’re not going to talk to him, or say anything, and if I see you being gentle or trying to weasel out of this I’m throwing you back in your cell.”

Foggy blinks, but he doesn’t let himself flinch.

“Are we clear?” Fisk asks again, taking a step forward.

“Yes,” Foggy chokes out through his suddenly dry throat.

As if that’s the signal, one of the goons unbolts the door, and Fisk grabs Foggy by the back of his neck and shoves him into the room.

\------------------------

It’s a sight from his worst nightmares.

There’s four goons standing around the tiny room, all looking towards the middle. Matt’s in the center.

He’s tied to some kind of bench, secured at the wrists, waist, knees, and ankles, and has been forced into a kneeling position. His knees are also tied to some kind of metal bar that keeps them spread, and he has a ball-gag wedged in his mouth.

Foggy can see him shaking, can see him working his hands to try to pull them free. Tears are rolling down his stubbly cheeks from his blank eyes, and he looks shocked and confused and in pain and…

…and _fuck_ , Foggy can’t do this.

He almost blurts out words as he takes in the scene, almost rushes over to Matt to untie him, to help him, to somehow soothe him and make this all go away. But before he does, he stops himself. If he fucks this up, Fisk isn’t going to give him another opportunity. If he messes up, this will be the last time he sees Matt (Fisk’s glare is proof enough of that). 

If he can’t do this, he’ll die remembering Matt bound and gagged and sobbing.

There’s no choice, so he walks over to Matt and reaches for his belt zipper.

Matt startles at his touch, then seems to realize who it is. As he does, the terror drains from his face, and Matt’s shoulders relax. Foggy knows what he’s thinking. He thinks that Foggy’s here to save him, to help him, to comfort him. He thinks Foggy’s going to let him out of his bindings. He thinks Foggy’s going to soothe him, touch him gently, to whisper that he’s safe and things are okay.

Nothing he can imagine lives up to the sight of the fear and confusion returning to Matt’s face as he undoes the other man’s button and zipper and pulls his pants down without a word. He wants to vomit, feels the gorge rise in his throat as Matt makes an inhuman sound behind the gag and struggles as his pants are pulled down to his knees.

It’s easier to go quickly than to slow down and try to be kind; in any event, he’s not sure how much lee-way Fisk will allow him. So as soon as he has Matt’s pants down he spits in his palm and starts to work him open. Foggy knows all too well how painful it is to be spread without lube, so he does his best, but at two fingers Matt starts to make noises that sound suspiciously like sobs from behind the gag.

He can’t help himself: he stops. If his heart hadn’t already been broken six ways from Sunday, this would surely break it.

One glance from Fisk, though, and he resumes.

Once Matt’s open enough that Foggy thinks he probably won’t do any permanent damage, he unzips his own pants and pulls himself out. He’s never been less hard in his entire life, and he closes his eyes tightly and palms himself, trying to get an erection. Somehow he manages it, manages to distance himself from the room and the goons and Fisk’s stare, manages to think himself into Matt’s apartment and Matt’s bed and soft sheets. He tries carefully not to think of Matt himself, not when he’s in the process of raping him. But even through the sweat and the grime and the smell of sex and fear he’s unpleasantly aware of Matt’s scent below him, of the feel of Matt’s skin underneath his palm, and ultimately it’s that awareness that gets him hard.

 _I can always kill myself once we escape_ , Foggy thinks to himself in self-disgust as the gorge rises again in his throat.

He takes a deep breath, and before he can think about it he starts to push himself into Matt. Matt screams behind the gag, the sound unmistakable despite being muffled.

From there the world devolves into a staticky hum.

Foggy forces himself not to think, only to feel, only to rock into the tight, hot space around his cock until he can feel the precipice of his orgasm approaching. He sprints towards it as fast as he can, rocking in and out and finally emptying himself into Matt’s ass ( _fuck, fuck, fuck, what has he done he just **raped** Matt, oh God oh fuck oh fuck_ ).

Choking down his own sobs, he pulls himself free, panting, before turning to the side and vomiting. Once he’s done being sick (it doesn’t take long, there’s not much in his stomach) he turns to Fisk.

Fisk meets his eyes and smiles.

Foggy’s never wanted to murder anyone so much in his entire life.

\------------------------------

The world moves like molasses as the goons kick Foggy to the side and free Matt from the bench before carrying it out of the cell, leaving him shaking on the floor, ball gag still in place.

As soon as the door clangs shut and they’re alone he rushes over to Matt where he’s lying slumped. He flinches briefly as Foggy reaches for the ball gag, before simply going limp.

Foggy’s never seen Matt defeated before—beaten in a fight, yes, but never at the point of giving up—and it terrifies him on a level he’s not sure he can stand. But instead of thinking about it, he pushes it to the side and fiddles with the clasp of the gag until it comes free and he can pull it from Matt’s mouth.

The moment it’s gone, Matt’s gentle sobs become audible, and Foggy feels like his heart is in a vice.

“Oh God, Matt, I’m so sorry,” he blurts out, abruptly needing to explain himself, to make Matt understand the depth of his guilt. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, Matt, I’m so sorry.” But if Matt notices he doesn’t show it, curling into himself further on the cold, bare floor, shoulders shaking softly. He flinches again, harder, when Foggy tries to reach for him, and _Christ_ this is a nightmare that he can’t wake up from.

So Foggy sits by him, letting his own tears drip down his nose, hands clenched in his lap, silently watching his friend sob.

Eventually the sobs taper off. Foggy’s almost asleep, exhausted and tired of being conscious. But at some point Matt stills and in a ragged whisper asks, “Foggy?”

He’s immediately awake again, every atom of his body straining in the direction of that voice, but Foggy keeps himself from reaching out purely by force. He climbs onto hands and knees, caught between the urge the reach out and the fear of seeing Matt flinch again.

“Yeah, Matt, I’m here.”

Matt pushes himself up from the ground, moving slowly like his arms hurt as much as his broken legs must in their casts. Bruises ring his wrists, and he has a growing black eye, and Foggy can barely bring himself to look at him after what he did.

Without warning, a smile bursts out on Matt’s face, relief warring with pain and distress and the afterglow of horror.

“You're here,” Matt mumbles past a swollen cheek and lips caked with blood, the smile shaking but present. “I woke up when they came in and tied me down. They wouldn’t tell me anything. I thought you were dead. I thought Fisk had finally killed you. But you're here. You're really _here_.”

Foggy is crying. He can feel the tears running down his cheeks. But Matt is sitting in front of him, is glad he’s alive, is glad he's there, and he just—

He just grabs Matt in a hug, wrapping his useless arms around him and holding him close while murmuring, “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here” over and over and over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all asked, and ye did receive ;)


	15. Chapter 15

Things are better now he’s back with Matt. Things still aren’t okay.

Matt spends most of his time over the next two days sitting with his back to the corner, eyes facing straight ahead and never flickering, not moving and only talking occasionally, cradling his damaged hand to his chest. Foggy tries to move as loudly as he can around the room when he gets up to empty the bed pan or to pick up food from the slot in the door or just so he doesn’t have to sit on the too-thin mattress any more. He knows how good Matt’s hearing is, but he’s scared that he’s going to startle him anyway, with the blankness that sometimes comes over his face.

When Matt does talk, Foggy wants to cry.

The thing is, he can tell Matt is trying. He still tries to grin, even when the grin doesn’t extend beyond a brief flash of teeth. He still tries to keep Foggy from giving up after the initial glow of their reunion has faded. He still talks to Foggy like he didn’t make the choice to rape him. It kills Foggy, and he wants to shake Matt until he wakes up enough to hate him already.

Matt has tried, once, to tell him that it wasn’t his fault.

Foggy puts it down to some quirk of self-flagellating Catholic perversity that while Matt is perfectly happy to take all the world’s sins onto his shoulders, he is deeply, completely, unwaveringly unwilling to let anyone else feel guilty. And while he’s glad Matt is willing (is _able_ ) to forgive him, he just. He just can’t listen to Matt try to make him feel less guilty, not after what he did to the other man. Part of him needs Matt to hate him (the part of him that isn’t so very afraid that Matt _will_ hate him). Needs Matt to be angry about what he did, to punch him or yell at him or tell him to leave.

So when Matt comes to and turns to him on the first day (?) and says, earnestly, “Foggy, it isn’t your fault, you know that right?” Foggy is ready for the feeling of being gutted.

He thinks it’s to his credit that he calmly replies, “It _is_ my fault, though. I _made a choice_ , Matt.” He doesn’t feel calm. He feels like a trapped animal at the point of chewing its leg off to escape. He gets up and walks the four steps across the cell, faces away from Matt, can’t do anything but brace himself against the concrete wall and try to absorb the patterns under his fingers. Anything else is too much.

“I don’t blame you.”

“I can’t make you blame me, but you should,” Foggy responds, still in that unnaturally calm voice. He feels like he’s watching himself from the ceiling, and isn’t that a funny sensation?

“Okay. I can’t make you not blame yourself, but you shouldn’t,” Matt responds in a rough voice that Foggy desperately wishes isn’t now engraved forever in his brain. He has nothing to add, so he stays in the opposite corner until the food arrives.

They don’t talk about it again, which suits Foggy just fine.

\---------------------

Foggy’s still having nightmares, as well. The night before, he woke Matt up screaming. In his dream (the dream he couldn’t bear to tell Matt about), he was fucking Matt all over again. The sensation had repulsed him, but he could feel his body responding, and he couldn’t stop, couldn’t _stop_. Matt had tried to calm him down, had reached out his hands to comfort him, but Foggy had scrambled over to the sink and sat, panting, unwilling to look at the other man. He wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ touch him. He had sat like that until the heat in his groin had faded, and he could stop himself from shaking.

“Foggy?” Matt says hesitantly, directly next to him, emerging from another session of blank stillness.

“Yeah?” he replies, shaking the thoughts from his head and turning to look at the other man. It kills Foggy how beautiful Matt still is, even after…however many days? weeks?...of torture. His cheeks and jaw are as strong as ever, with a dusting of stubble. His eye is still black and swollen, but his lips are as soft and red, and _Christ_ Foggy is going to hell, is in hell, is paying for every obscene thought he’s ever had about Matt. And he wouldn’t care, could accept that he deserves it, every violation and more, if it wasn’t for the fact that Matt is paying for it too. It kills him that Matt is suffering because of him.

“I’m sorry,” Matt states simply. Foggy draws a breath, about to reject the apology, to tell Matt that he has nothing to be sorry for, before he continues.

“I’m sorry that that was how we…that that was the first time we ever. We ever had sex, you know?”

And Matt could have just announced that he intended to take up non-violence and become the next Gandhi, and it would surprise Foggy less than the words that just came out of his mouth. Foggy can’t help it: he gapes at the other man.

“I mean, I had thought about it so much, I’m sorry that that was our first time. I wish—well, I wish a lot of things, but I’m sorry we couldn’t have, y’know, before that.”

“What.” Foggy tries to make it a question, but he’s too surprised to even do that.

It’s clear from his expression that Matt’s trying to play it cool, that he’s trying not to show his actual thoughts, but Foggy’s known him for too long—is practically married to the man, for heaven’s sake—for it to work. Matt is feeling embarrassment, is feeling fear ( _the man is afraid of **rejection**_ , Foggy realizes in wonder), is desperately skirting around the memory of what happened. And Foggy doesn’t know what to make of any of this information.

“I mean, I get it,” Matt continues hurriedly. “If you’re not into it. If you don’t think of me that way, or you’re straight or whatever. I know that you didn’t have a choice.” And the flat line of Matt’s mouth says that he’s thinking about the rape, about Fisk and all the pain he’d like to cause the man. Foggy grits his teeth to prevent himself from restarting their earlier argument about exactly how guilty Foggy is, because this is something different. This is something important. “And I’m really sorry if you didn’t want to…fuck…me. But I just wanted you to know that, I’m, y’know, I’m not angry. It’s something I wanted for a long time.” And with a twisted, ugly smile he adds, “Just, not like that.”

The twist in Foggy’s guts leaves him breathless.

This is Matt saying…admitting…that he had thought about Foggy before, that he had wanted—

It’s too much.

It’s everything that Foggy has wanted for the last six years. It’s the words he would have given his left hand to hear come out of Matt’s mouth even a couple weeks (?) earlier. And he’s only hearing them in this gray concrete cell, sitting on a battered mattress, bruised and violated and afraid of dying or (worse) watching Matt die.

God, he wants to cry and scream and laugh and whoop, all at the same time.

He contents himself with asking a stifled, “Can I…?” Before he can finish the question Matt blurts out, “Yes,” and then blushes.

Before he can second guess it, he’s reaching out for Matt, drawing him close and kissing him, first on the cheek, and then on those lips. And then Matt’s kissing him back, hungry and harsh and needy. Eventually Foggy draws back.

“I’m sorry that that was the first time too,” he whispers against those lips. “But I’m not sorry that you told me.” And Matt is grinning like a loon, against all reason, is resting his hand on Foggy’s shoulder affectionately.

“If we make it out of here, you had better take me out to dinner. And I mean a nice dinner,” Matt laughs, sounding almost giddy.

And Foggy is lost, lost in that smile and is happy to give himself to the beautiful man in front of him and never look back. “It’s a date,” he laughs back, terrified of the happiness in his breast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay in posting--life got crazy, like life does :P


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: some (extremely non-consensual) breathplay in this chapter. I've added it to the tags, but please be forewarned.

Foggy had assumed that having Fisk fuck him couldn’t get any worse, but _gosh_ was he wrong. The pain of being violated in his own private cell is nothing compared to the pain of being raped next to Matt, after what he said (admitted) to Foggy.

Foggy had known the happiness wouldn’t last, had made his peace with the fact that being anything but miserable and afraid wasn’t going to be a thing. And he was okay with it, _he was_. But he hadn’t thought about the fact that Matt hadn’t, and wasn’t.

Fisk fucks him against the wall, tried and true and pretty-well guaranteed to force Foggy to make noise.

Foggy is embarrassed, is _horrified_ , when Fisk enters the cell and shoves him against the far wall and grabs his junk hard enough to startle a gasp from him but not hard enough to be painful. It throws him so hard that he actually thrashes and fights for a moment, before he remembers that there’s no point in struggling.

Fisk laughs, and rips his pants down, spins him around and pushes an enormous hand between his shoulder blades. Without thinking, Foggy catches a glance of Matt. He’s sitting rigid on the mattress, face twisted in anger (Foggy tells himself it’s not anger at _him_ , not anger that Foggy is a slut who gets off from being fucked by a monster, gets off from just about anyone fucking him. But it’s still hard to believe).

Fisk is already hard. Foggy can feel the other man’s erection pushing against his ass, and he can’t help the ragged breath he draws in, knowing what’s coming and trying not to be aware of anything, to send himself somewhere far, far away from here. It works—a little—and he shuts his eyes to try to block everything out, so he doesn’t have to be conscious of how close Matt is, that he’s going to hear every sound he and Fisk are going to make as this…as it happens.

The other man doesn’t beat around the bush: he thrusts himself in fast and sharp and if Foggy hadn’t prepped himself he’d be bleeding (might still be bleeding, but he won’t think about that right now, he _won’t_ ). Not that Fisk has ever been gentle, but it’s obvious that this time around he’s going for something, to cause pain and sensation. He’s forcing him to make noise, Foggy realizes with dawning anger and horror as he’s breached with more force than he’s experienced in weeks, as he struggles to choke back a grunt at the sharp thrust of the cock inside him.

His immediate reaction is to put everything he has, emotionally and physically, into fighting it and keeping quiet, but wow that doesn’t work.

Fisk is brutal. He fucks Foggy hard, pushing him against the wall and grabbing his hair and _pulling_ so that his head is bent back and his eyes are forced open. Fisk looms over Foggy, a viscerally frightening presence even as he fucks him, and it’s all Foggy can do to keep his ragged breathing and panting from turning into outright gasps and whimpers and moans. But then ( _“then”! how is there a “then”? how does it keep getting worse?_ ) Fisk wraps a meaty hand around Foggy’s throat and squeezes.

All Foggy can think as he feels his air being cut off is, _Of course it was going to come to choke-sex eventually. How could it not?_

And then he’s gasping and choking for breath, desperately pulling at the hand around his neck even as his face is ground into the wall, and tears are starting to drip from his bulging eyes and he can feel himself drooling as the pressure builds and builds and then lets up.

He gulps down a great big gasp of air, shoulder braced against the concrete as Fisk slams into him, and _Christ_ he’s hard, the lack of air or the angle that Fisk is fucking him at or something has him hard as a rod, and fuck it feels good whatever Fisk is doing to him and he _comes_.

Foggy comes so hard that he sees stars (or maybe that’s still oxygen deprivation?) and he knows he’s not being quiet but he can’t be.

Fisk comes with a growl, pants, and then shoves him off his cock, tucks himself back into his pants and leaves the room chuckling. Foggy lands on his knees in a pool of his own jizz, with Fisk’s come dripping lukewarm from his ass. He’s not sure why this time is so much worse than usual, why this is the time he feels so filthy and disgusting that he wishes he was dead, but something about it grips him behind his diaphragm and _twists_. Before he can do anything, he vomits on the floor, bracing himself against the wall with shaking hands and trying to ignore the harsh ache in his throat at the added abuse.

After he’s vomited up everything in his stomach, he stumbles over to the sink and rinses out his mouth again and again and again, choking down sobs and washing his hands and face until he feels a little calmer, a little more steady. Leaning against the sink he rasps out through his abused throat, “Matt.”

“Yeah, Foggy?” Matt says instantly, voice holding the forced steadiness of someone who superheroes as his night job. Foggy allows himself a grimace at the thought that he’s talking to the Daredevil right now, to someone who specializes in damage control, in helping, in _protecting_.

“Can I come sit next to you?” he croaks, the pain of the crushing pressure and his vomit already making itself known.

“Of course,” Matt replies, sounding a little bit surprised at the request, at Foggy not just doing it. But Foggy can’t forget that no matter what Fisk does to him, he was still the one who raped Matt, and no matter what he’s feeling he’s not going to assume that Matt wants him anywhere near him. The thought simultaneously makes rage bloom in his chest and his stomach contract uncomfortably in sudden nausea. But instead of examining the sensations, he limps over to Matt and drops onto the filthy mattress. Matt reaches for him, and for a change he doesn’t find himself flinching as he’s pulled to the side of the other man.

\--------------------

Matt kisses his forehead gently, and holds him firmly against his side, stroking his hair with hands that shake. Foggy finds himself abruptly weak in the other man’s grasp as the terror and adrenaline begin to drain away.

Matt smells strongly of unwashed human ( _how was he supposed to wash himself, without Foggy?_ ) and faintly of blood, but Foggy can’t help but be struck by how familiar his scent is regardless. He smells like late nights in the library, like studying for exams, like courtrooms and wandering through Manhattan, like safety and like home. Foggy closes his eyes and turns his face to Matt’s neck, to the comfort that he offers.

He feels a faint drip on his cheek, and realizes Matt is crying.

Irrationally, his first reaction is to laugh. Why is Matt crying? Fisk is gone, and Foggy is fine, he isn’t bleeding and his throat might be sore but he’s not hurt, _not really_. It’s ended for now; it always ends eventually, that was one of the first things he learned. And then rational thought kicks in, and he realizes how insane what he was just thinking would sound if he said it out loud to Matt.

It hits him like a freight train or one of Fisk’s fists, right then: _Matt isn’t used to this_.

What has been Foggy’s reality for the last…however long…is still something Matt considers unthinkable, has only been experiencing in the abstract sense while Foggy was gone. So while Foggy’s made his peace with the fact he’s some kind of pervert who gets off on being fucked and choked and humiliated, Matt isn’t prepared for it, or at least for experiencing it first-hand.

“Matt,” Foggy says hoarsely. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Matt responds, a quiet sniffle belaying his words.

“No, really, Matt, _are you okay_?” he insists. He needs Matt to understand that this is going to happen again, that it happens every day, maybe more often than that, and he needs to know that Matt can handle it. He can’t be thinking about protecting Matt from the reality of what this is and about the most efficient way to suck off a goon at the same time. It’s not possible, and even if it was, it wouldn’t be _safe_. Not for him and certainly not for Matt.

“No,” Matt admits eventually, when the silence reels away in the bare cell. “I…I know he’s done it before, I could hear through the walls when you were gone, but I wasn’t—I wasn’t expecting…that.” His face crumples in disgust, and Foggy quietly hates himself because now Matt knows exactly how much of a pathetic slut he is. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is that Matt is safe, not that Foggy’s so desperate that he comes on Fisk’s cock.

“It’s okay. I’m sorry you had to hear that,” he says, squeezing Matt’s hand. Matt squeezes back, is so generous that he doesn’t pull away from Foggy’s grasp. “He’s going to do it again, you know.”

Matt sits quietly at that, not moving or responding, with tears trickling from his eyes, and Foggy silently panics for a while, until he gets too tired to even do that. They sit in silence under the humming florescent lights for some period of time, hours perhaps ( _time doesn’t exist here_ , Foggy reminds himself), when Matt suddenly turns to him.

“I have a memory, when I was sick…” Matt murmurs, looking lost in recollections, eyebrows knitting together as he tries to remember.

Foggy feels his stomach sink. Matt wasn’t supposed to know about that first conversation. Matt wasn’t supposed to _remember_. If he asks about the deal that he made with Fisk, it might kill Foggy. He knows he should speak up, should change the subject, but he finds himself frozen, powerless to avoid the blow.

Matt sits for a moment longer, then shakes his head as though dismissing his thoughts, and then smiles a faint shadow of a smile.

Foggy is too raw inside, too tense from the conversation, to smile back, but he feels some of the tension leave his shoulders at Matt’s expression.

“I need your help,” Matt whispers even more quietly, his lips almost brushing Foggy’s ear. “My legs are getting better, and I need you to help me start getting my muscles back.”

And abruptly Foggy’s world is upended. It’s like the sun has unexpectedly risen, like the room has warmed up by ten degrees, and he can feel his heart thudding in his chest with the sudden burst of adrenaline.

He turns to look at Matt, and leans over to whisper, “ _Really?_ ” in his ear.

Matt grins just a little and nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a work inspired by this one, take a peek at [ BookWerm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookWerm/pseuds/BookWerm)'s delightful [The Only Color I See](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15005108). Thanks, BookWerm!!


	17. Chapter 17

The going would be easier if they had more protein, Matt informs Foggy what might be five or six days later.

Fisk doesn’t feed them much in the best of times, and what he does feed them doesn’t have much protein in it. Sometimes some canned ravioli, or maybe some chicken soup, but their meals tend to be mostly stale bread and sometimes fruit or vegetables.

Foggy doesn’t tell Matt, but he’s started giving the other man some of his portions of what food they have, to try to help him heal faster, to give him energy to get his legs back in working shape. Sometimes hunger pains keep him awake at night, but he tells himself that it’s worth it as he tries to drink enough water to trick his stomach into feeling full.

And the thing is, it is.

For the first time in what must be weeks, Foggy has a glimmer of hope to hold onto when he’s being raped by Fisk or some faceless goon. For the first time, he can actually do something, beyond just surviving and being afraid.

In the seven (eight?) days since Matt told him about his legs, Foggy has started to help him do leg exercises. Nothing complex, of course, since Foggy doesn’t know the first thing about physical therapy and Matt’s never had to rehabilitate a broken limb in a situation quite like this. But stretches and movements to start building up the muscle that Matt’s lost.

They have to be careful. Foggy knows all too well that Fisk is watching the cell, so they are surreptitious when Matt does his exercises. Sometimes, Foggy helps him move to a different place in the cell that might be less closely watched. Sometimes, Matt does his stretching underneath Foggy’s coat and with Foggy sitting in front of him to give him privacy. Sometimes, Foggy even pretends to be exercising and practicing fighting while Matt is doing his own exercises, just to provide a distraction ( _God but he feels stupid when he does it, but he hopes how foolish it must look makes it all the more distracting_ ). Based on the fact Fisk hasn’t said or done anything, it seems to be working.

\----------------------

Until it doesn’t.

It’s maybe a week after Matt told Foggy about his legs, and Fisk is balls-deep in Foggy’s ass.

It’s one of the days when Foggy is too tired to fight. He entirely skipped eating the day before so Matt could get enough. Fisk hadn’t sent any new food in that day, so they were pretty much down to the heel of the latest loaf of bread and not much else. The bread had been so hard that Foggy had had to soak it in tap water to render it anything close to edible.

It hadn’t been particularly appetizing, so giving the whole thing to Matt hadn’t taken much will power. ( _Not much, but a little. Christ, Foggy is so hungry all the time these days, and his clothes hang loosely off of him. He almost wishes there was a mirror in the cell, but he knows he’d be too scared to use it if there was_ ). Matt had held it and asked, “What about you?” When Foggy had replied that he wasn’t hungry for shitty old stale bread, Matt had given him a look that said he knew the truth. But something in Foggy's tone or movement or heartbeat had prevented Matt from questioning it.

So Foggy is exhausted and achy and not in a place where he can smother the moan that rips itself out of his throat when Fisk slams into his prostate. And as Fisk does, he leans over Foggy’s shoulder and growls, “Almost time for your boyfriend’s casts to come off.”

Foggy goes from unhappy but acquiescent to tense and adrenaline-filled in no time flat. Fisk grunts at the sudden pressure, and thrusts in even deeper.

“Ah, just like that, slut, just like that, you like this, don’t you?”

And Foggy is frozen like that, trying to brace himself against the words just as much as the jerking thrusts that move his body. _Fisk knows._

_Fisk knows Fisk knows Fisk knows Fisk knows Fisk knows Fisk knows oh God Fisk knows._

_But he didn’t say that he knows_ , Foggy thinks frantically as Fisk’s dick pumps in and out, in and out. _He just suspects._

And Foggy can’t be the one to make him guess.

So Foggy concentrates on breathing, on remaining still, on not looking at Matt, on surviving this.

Fisk doesn’t know, but he suspects, and it seems to make him fuck Foggy harder than ever, rough and brutal and furious enough that it doesn’t end up mattering that Foggy slicked himself up and worked himself open earlier.

But he survives.

He stays quiet, doesn’t give anything away, doesn’t ruin everything, doesn’t blow the one thing that might make all of this _end_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I miscounted my chapters, so y'all get two bonus chapters beyond the 18 I had said this would be. :)


	18. Chapter 18

The day finally comes when they cut off Matt’s casts.

There’s no preamble for it. Fisk barges into their cell, and Foggy is ready to be raped yet again, is already instinctively half turned towards the wall just to stop Fisk from slamming him into it. But instead of reaching for Foggy, he grabs Matt.

Foggy is on the offensive before it even consciously registers, rushing towards the two men to keep Matt safe. Keeping Matt safe is the only thing that has let him survive for as long as he has so far, the only thing that feels like moving forward, like breathing.

Fisk glares him to a standstill almost instantly, and before Foggy can gather his courage to start rushing forward again, he begins to speak.

“Today’s your luck day, Murdock,” Fisk grinds out, making it sound closer to a curse than a happy announcement. “We’re taking your casts off.”

And Foggy is frozen, his heart in his throat.

“If you try anything, anything at all, next time we cut off one of your feet.” Fisk shakes Matt a little, as if to drive home the point.

Foggy wants to vomit. He knew how dangerous what they were doing was, trying to get Matt fit enough to break out, but he hadn’t thought about the actual consequences if they were caught.

Matt calmly turns his face towards Fisk. The world slows to a crawl as Foggy sees the flash of defiance that makes Matt _Matt_ cross his face, and he holds his breath as he waits for Matt to reply.

 _Christ_ Foggy wants to punch Matt. Doesn’t he understand that right now Fisk is their lifeline? That pissing him off is a terrible idea? That if they mess this up, there probably won’t be a second chance? That there’s more important things than defiance? Foggy’s bet everything he has that that’s true.

But instead Matt lets the expression go and replies with a flat, “Okay.” Foggy draws in a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Almost before he’s finished drawing the air into his lungs, Fisk has hauled Matt from the cell and the door slams shut in Foggy’s face. He pounds against it half-heartedly, and then gives up and goes to sit on the mattress and hug his knees. Nothing he can do right now will protect Matt. It’s up to him to keep himself safe and get them out of here.

\--------------------------

Foggy drifts in and out of consciousness as he waits. It feels vaguely like floating, or like he’s watching himself from the ceiling. Flickers of memory light up the world behind his eyes, glimpses of sun through leaves in the summer, the taste of his mother’s meatloaf, the feel of his favorite ratty sweatshirt.

The tears dripping from his eyes sting a little, but he doesn’t mind.

\--------------------------

He’s so far out of it that it takes him a moment to notice the noises at the door. Foggy has barely struggled to his knees when they shove Matt into the room, legs bare and pale and covered with dark hair.

Matt doesn’t make any noise as he collapses forward on his wasted legs.

Foggy runs forward and grabs him as he falls, taking his weight and easing him down. That’s the point where Foggy realizes that Matt is only wearing a thin pair of boxers below his shirt and jacket. The boxers are grey and speckled with…

_Blood._

“Matt,” Foggy whispers. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Matt looks like he might not respond, like he might just pass out. But he gathers himself and nods his head.

 _He doesn’t **look** okay, whatever he may say about it_ , Foggy thinks to himself.

But there’s nothing for it, so he gathers Matt up against his side and hauls him to the mattress.

\--------------------------

Matt doesn’t speak to him for what might be two entire days.

He won’t respond, won’t eat. It confuses Foggy, and it scares him.

He can guess what happened to Matt. He may not be the brains of the operation, may just know what their time is worth, but he’s not _stupid._

Matt mouthed off to Fisk or one of the goons, or maybe someone was just in a bad mood and they remembered Matt sending one of their friends to prison or the hospital, and he paid the price. It’s happened to Foggy more often than he’d care to think about.

It’s just the fact that he doesn't know how to help Matt that has him worried.

So he gives Matt as much space as he can manage in a small concrete cell and _waits_.

\------------------------------

Eventually Matt does speak.

It's during one of the periods when Foggy is sitting across the cell from him, his back against the unforgiving concrete, idly thinking about what he'd order if he were suddenly transported to a Baskin-Robbins.

His debate between butter pecan ice cream and tiramisu is cut short when Matt says in what Foggy knows all-to-well to be a forcibly steady voice, "Foggy."

He's instantly alert, is instantly focused on the other man. Matt's face holds a misery that catches Foggy behind his rib cage, as well as a faint tinge of guilt that confuses him.

"Foggy," Matt says again, looking tired and sick and it's all Foggy can do not to run over to his side. But _fuck_ Fisk _raped_ him, and Foggy isn't going to do _anything_ without Matt's permission.

"Yeah, Matt?" he says, trying to match Matt's even tone, trying not to let his worry and fear creep into his voice.

"I..." Matt gets out, before shutting his mouth with a snap, face crumpling as tears begin to escape from his eyes. Foggy can't help but get to his knees (the pain from the bruises he always has there is electric but it doesn't matter), grips his thighs to keep from moving any further. Watching Matt upset and being in the same room but unable to help is _agony_.

"It's okay, Matt, you don't have to talk about it," he murmurs. _I know what happened_ , he doesn't add.

Matt shakes his head and swallows painfully. "It's..." he says before stopping, and then starting again. "It's not that."

"Then what?" Foggy is baffled. This _feels_ like one of Matt's bizarre Catholic guilt moments, but for the life of him Foggy can't see _what_ Matt is guilty _about_.

"When he did it," Matt says, barely above a whisper. "When he...I was. I was _glad_ , for a second."

And Foggy doesn't know where this is going yet, but he has suspicions. And he does not like where they lead.

"I was glad because I was finally going to be the one to get it. I was finally going to know how much it hurts when he...when he fucks you. Finally going to get what I deserved."

 _Oh **HELL** no, Matt did not just say that he **deserved to be raped**._ Foggy flatters himself that he's pretty much the reigning champion of putting up with Matt's insane guilt complex, but _this_...

But before Foggy can burst out yelling Matt continues.

"I'm sorry, Foggy. I just...I can't stop thinking about how I wanted to know how bad it hurt. It was a fucked up thing to think. Like I _could_ know what it's been like for you."

And _how is it_ that Matt thinks that his wanting to know what Foggy's experiences with Fisk are like is the most fucked-up thing that just came out of his mouth? _Foggy wants to scream._ He squeezes his hands against his thighs so tight it hurts, just to ground himself.

"Alright, Matt, I'm gonna have to stop you right there, because we need to talk about the words you just said," he says as calmly as he is able. And Matt looks like a kicked puppy, _why does Matt look like a kicked puppy?_

"I know it was messed up. I just, I wanted to apologize."

"No, Matt, the messed up thing is not that you've been wondering how bad it sucks to be raped by Wilson Fisk. _The messed up thing is that **you think you deserved to be raped?**_ "

Matt somehow has the audacity to look _confused_. Foggy is unaccountably furious, at Matt, at Fisk, at the entire world.

"Because I don't care if you've wondered what it's like. You have to listen to him fuck me all the time, why shouldn't you? But thinking that you _deserve it_? That I'm not okay with."

"But this is _my fault_ ," Matt states as though it's somehow an obvious fact, stubbornness and guilt and a hint of frustration with Foggy warring on his face. "It's nothing more than I deserve. I could have kept us safe and _I didn't_."

"Matt, there is one person whose fault this is, and his name is Wilson fucking Fisk. _Not. You._ "

"Stick would say it was my fault. I was slow. I was too drunk. It was my fault." Tears are running down Matt's face now, and the worst part of this entire conversation is that Foggy can tell that Matt genuinely means what he's saying. Foggy's heart is pounding loud enough that he can hear it, so he knows Matt can too.

"Stick is an asshole and I don't care what he thinks," he says firmly, standing up and walking over to Matt before dropping to his knees again so he is at Matt's face level. "I'm right by you, and I know you can't see it, but I'm not smiling." Matt seems almost afraid, not of Foggy but of the words coming out of his mouth.

"It was my fault," Matt whispers again, curling in on himself. "It was my fault. I couldn't protect you and all of this is my fault."

And in the space of an instant Foggy's anger dissolves into concern. He reaches out and then pauses. "Can I sit by you? Can I hold your hand?"

Matt's eyes are pressed shut firmly, but he nods and lowers one hand from his hair so that Foggy can take it. Foggy lowers himself to sit shoulder to shoulder with Matt and grasps his hand in his own.

They sit like that for what might be an hour. Eventually Foggy decides that he's going to have to be the one to break the silence.

"It's okay. I forgive you for wondering what it's like for me."

Matt sniffs and doesn't raise his head, but he does squeeze Foggy's hand.

"And I know you don't believe me that this isn't your fault, but it's not. And I'll keep telling you that until you do believe me." Matt sniffles again and leans into Foggy's shoulder until he wraps a loose arm around him, and eventually the warmth and weight of the other man helps Foggy drift off.

\--------------------------

Matt’s back to something close to his usual self after that. Better than, really. He wakes Foggy up by doing leg exercises, and when Foggy rolls over to glare at him he seems so calm that Foggy can’t even stay angry. Foggy lays there on the mattress, not exactly relaxed, but feeling placid after an unusually sound night’s sleep.

Matt is lying on his back, cycling his legs in the air as if he is riding an invisible bike. He notices when Foggy stirs and stops, scooting over to press against him. If they were in a bed and not on a dirty mattress in a dirty cell it would be sweet and maybe a little arousing, the press of Matt’s wiry body against him as he lies there, still floppy from sleep. He considers sitting up, but Matt reaches over and pulls Foggy so that his head rests against the other man’s shoulder.

“Good morning,” Matt whispers, his stubble brushing Foggy’s forehead. Foggy grunts in reply, but can’t help but smile a little.

“I’m sorry for earlier. I was...it was...thank you,” he continues, placing what might be a kiss or perhaps just a press of lips on Foggy’s forehead.

“That’s okay,” Foggy replies, because it is. He is unpleasantly aware that his breath smells terrible.

“I…I wanted to tell you. I heard Fisk talking out in the hallway, when they were cutting the casts off. I heard him talking about one of his gambling operations.” And if Matt feels like he needs to tell Foggy about some crazy super sleuthing that he was doing that’s _fine_ , but he still has some trouble not feeling impatient. He wants to know if _Matt is okay_ , not what profit margins Fisk is making from some back-alley bookie. But Matt’s next words make that impatience vanish.

“Someone killed all of his operators there. Shot them.”

And that…that sounds like someone they both know all too well. Foggy barks out a brief laugh, because they may be trapped here but that doesn’t mean Fisk’s troubles are over. Matt smiles as well.

“I think that’s why Fisk was in such a bad mood.” Foggy bets that that’s true, and he knows who took the brunt of that anger.

“Apparently one bookie didn’t die immediately. Frank was asking questions.” Matt pauses and draws in a breath. “He’s looking for us, Foggy.”

Foggy’s heart immediately leaps in his chest, starts to pound against his rib cage. They’re not alone anymore. Frank is looking for them, and if Foggy knows anything about Castle it’s that he won’t stop until he’s found them. He reaches out and takes Matt’s hand and squeezes. Matt squeezes back, and then grabs Foggy’s hair and kisses him.

Well, _kiss_ is a relative term. Smashes his mouth against Foggy’s, is more like it, hungry and needy and so hot. Foggy kisses him right back, giving as good as he gets, one hand on Matt’s neck and the other sliding along his side. His hand, the one with the finger that Fisk broke, aches (hasn’t really stopped aching since it was smashed, and it doesn’t quite work right) but he doesn’t care. It’s brutal and sexy and Foggy lets himself fall into the sensation, trusting Matt to warn him if anyone comes for them.

Eventually Matt pulls away, and Foggy subsides back onto his shoulder. Matt strokes his hair gently as they lay there, and says, “We have to be ready though, if Frank comes for us. I doubt Fisk’ll let us just walk out of here. He’s not stupid. If Frank busts in here, Fisk is probably going to have someone take care of us. We have to be ready.”

And yes, that sounds like something Fisk would do, that fucking prick. It’s not enough to rape them and starve them and beat them, he also has to have the last word about whether they live or die.

Matt must sense Foggy tensing, and he runs a hand down his side soothingly.

“It’s okay. I’m already feeling better. I can stand a little, and if I keep working at it I’ll be able to fight in a couple of days. I won’t let anything happen to you, Foggy.” And then with a wry twist of his mouth he adds, “Well, I won’t let anyone murder you before Frank gets here.” Foggy laughs and tries to keep the bitterness out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now co-starring Matt's misplaced guilt!
> 
> This ended up being an extra long chapter because I added some stuff since I've gotten a couple comments asking for more. I hope you enjoy the extra stuff here :)


	19. Chapter 19

They aren’t expecting it when Castle arrives, and neither is Fisk.

Somehow (seriously, does that man have some sort of sixth sense?) he manages to time it when Fisk is in the cell with them.

Foggy is crouched against the back wall of the cell, clutching his head and wondering if Fisk just gave him a broken orbital bone or only a black eye. Fisk has his fingers threaded in his hair, and a goon has a gun pressed against the side of Matt’s head.

It’s not a good day, all in all.

Foggy can hear a stream of obscenity pouring out of his own mouth against the pain, and he is aware of Matt only barely suppressing his desire to fight back.

Fisk pulls him up by his hair and looks like he’s about to give him a second black eye to match the first when—

A faint whisper of noise above, and then a gun shot, and another.

Foggy can’t help but look at Matt, and he knows that he didn’t imagine the sound. Matt is abruptly still as a statue, listening intently.

Fisk’s fist descends without warning, breaking Foggy’s concentration and smashing into his already off-kilter nose. It’s like someone turned on a faucet. His nose is pouring blood, and Foggy turns to the side and vomits from the pain.

As he’s heaving, he hears what can only be another couple of gun shots. How is Fisk not hearing this? Does he just not care? Or did he know this was coming, and has he simply decided that he’s going to kill them and worry about the consequences later?

Whatever the reason, Fisk doesn’t seem to register the gun shots as he pulls Foggy back up.

“Dealer’s choice,” the man grinds out like boulders rolling down a mountain. “Want to suck me off? Or do you want me to fuck you instead?”

Foggy spits blood on the ground and looks up. Something in his face seems to move Fisk briefly, some emotion flickering momentarily across the other man’s round face. “ _Fuck. You._ ” Foggy grates it out, knowing exactly what comes next and not caring. If Fisk hasn’t noticed that Castle’s here, then Foggy’s going to keep him distracted as long as possible. Or, if he doesn’t care, then the longer Foggy draws this out the better their chance of living gets.

Fisk definitely breaks _something_ with his next punch, if the sound is anything to go by.

And then as Fisk is drawing back his fist for another blow, the goon’s radio buzzes into life.

“ _Kzzzz-zzsh-Code Bl—kkkkkk—repeat, Code Black, incursion in pro— **BANG**_.” With what is unmistakably a gunshot the radio cuts out.

Everyone in the room is frozen for a moment.

And then Fisk shoves Foggy back against the wall and moves his bulk toward the door. The goon follows suit, shoving Matt away. It’s clear from the way that the goon doesn’t immediately step away from Matt that he doesn’t realize how close he is to having Matt punch him until he’s more liquid than solid.

Matt is crouching by the wall, coiled like a spring. He nods once, twice, and again. Foggy knows what it means. It’s the signal they agreed on, for when the time came. Well, looks like it’s here.

Another gunshot, and another, and another echo down the hallway. It’s clear that Castle is getting closer. Foggy can feel his heart pounding.

Fisk slams his fist against the door three times and shouts, “Open it up.” A goon from out in the hall shoves the door open, looking nervous and fingering his pistol. Fisk turns to the other goon still in the cell and says, simply, “Shoot them.”

And the cell door abruptly slams shut, leaving just Foggy, Matt, and the goon.

The goon doesn’t last more than twenty seconds. Matt’s still out of shape and healing, but the goon is, in all fairness, really dumb. After the door slams he turns around and goes to shoot _Foggy_ first.

_Really?_ Foggy thinks as he stares down the barrel of the gun. _This is the time when someone treats me like a threat?_

Matt launches himself wholesale at the goon. It’s not elegant but what the beat-down lacks in art it makes up for in brutality. For a moment, Foggy is almost tempted to tell Matt to tone it down a little, that the goon is _down already, Jesus_. But then he recognizes the goon as the one that broke him, days or weeks or months ago, as the one who made him come while they were kneeling on the concrete floor of his solitary cell. So instead he throws a kick in once Matt has him down.

Matt fires twice into the mattress and then hands him the pistol.

“Do we try to leave?” Foggy asks, not actually quite sure what happens now. Matt nods and motions him over to the door. Foggy follows, gripping the pistol like it’s his ticket home, which it sort of is, he supposes.

A gunshot rings out, easily audible through the metal door. A beat, another beat, and then a second shot.

“One hundred and fifty yards,” Matt says, staring intently into nothing. “One hundred.”

There’s sounds of muffled yelling, several more gunshots. “Fifty.”

Matt pounds three times on the door and says in a gruff voice, “We’re good in here. Let me out.”

Foggy can’t fucking believe it when the door groans open without them being challenged. He almost laughs at Matt’s incredulous, “ _Seriously?!_ ” but is instantly on the alert as the other man slips through the gap. His heart feels like a jack hammer, like it might beat through his chest, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins is almost painful.

And then there’s a whirl of noise from the hallway. Foggy peers through the crack in the door, but Matt had made him agree to stay in the room until it was safe, and based on the bullets flying through the air it is certainly not that. Matt is limping around, punching goons as they turn in surprise to the second threat before turning back to the primary danger. Foggy follows their line of sight and suddenly catches a glimpse of a black-clad figure with a skull emblazoned on his chest, and he could laugh in relief. It’s Frank Castle, looking like death and vengeance incarnate.

After a few minutes of vicious fighting it’s down to just the Punisher, Daredevil, and Fisk. Fisk is a big man, and he doesn’t go down easily. Foggy pushes the door open a little bit wider to see. They have the massive man backed up against the wall of the hallway. Fisk is clearly ready for a fight, but Castle doesn’t look to be in the mood.

“Get on your knees, Fisk,” Matt says calmly, looking slightly deranged in boxers, a button-up shirt, and Foggy’s coat.

“And if I don’t?” Fisk replies, menace dripping from every syllable. Castle may be terrifying, with his gnarled nose and covered in other people’s blood, but Fisk’s voice makes Foggy’s skin crawl, makes him want to vomit or hide or cry. Matt frowns, and Foggy’s waiting for the fight, is bracing himself, when—

_**BANG** _

—Castle’s pistol is smoking and Fisk topples to the floor, howling and clutching at the mass of blood and bone and sinew that used to be his right knee. Castle braces himself and points his pistol at the other man’s head, preparing to fire.

“NO!” Foggy shouts before he can think about what he’s doing. “No, don’t!”

Instantly Castle’s pistol is pointing at him, and almost as quickly Matt is standing between that pistol and where Foggy is bracing himself against the door. It takes a beat, but Castle finally recognizes Foggy behind the blood-drenched face and black eye and drops his arm, before pointing it back at Fisk.

“No, he’s right Frank, don’t,” Matt says, reaching out.

“I know what he did,” Frank grates out, cocking the pistol, eyes never leaving Fisk’s face. “I know what he did to you both. He’d do it again, if he could. Let me end it here.”

And it’s tempting, it’s so very, very, _very_ tempting, but Foggy can’t. He just can’t. It’s not who he is, even after all of this. He may have been taken apart piece by piece, but he isn’t a murderer.

“No.” He says it, and Frank waits a beat and then puts the safety on.

“How you want to play this, Red?” Castle says, pulling a roll of duct tape and zip ties out of somewhere. He zip-ties Fisk’s hands together and slaps a piece of tape over his mouth. "Karen asked me to find you, but past here you're calling the shots."

“We’ll prosecute him ourselves. Once we get out of here. You need to call the police. We’ll stay here until they come, and we’ll say that the Punisher saved us. It’ll be easy to establish motive with Fisk, since we put him away once before. We’ll have them run rape kits, that should be enough evidence. Before you leave, you'll need to get rid of any footage of me fighting.” Matt is talking sharply and authoritatively, walking along the corridor with Castle.

Foggy isn’t feeling authoritative. He’s feeling weak and dizzy, and without his permission his legs give out under him. He collapses to the floor, staring at Fisk, who might or might not be conscious at the moment, his knee a horror of gore and cartilage.

The world fades to a staticky hum, narrows and narrows until it’s just a tunnel in front of his eyes, before he feels Matt drop down next to him, pull him close to his side. Foggy can’t stop shaking, can’t stop the tears, and he buries his face in Matt’s shoulder as the other man strokes his hair and whispers comforting nothings in his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter, folks. This is the last real chapter. The final one will be an epilogue I added a month or two ago as a thank you for sticking with me through the utter grimness that has been Cold Comfort. Thank you so much to everyone who commented--this is the first fan fic I've ever written and the first I've ever posted online, and the love from y'all has meant a tremendous amount. <3 <3 <3


	20. Epilogue

Foggy stares at the door, nerves prickling along his arms, mouth dry.

The sun shines through the window at his back, warming his still-cold bones. There’s so many things he’s thankful for now. Not that he wasn’t thankful for them before—Foggy flatters himself that he usually sees the good in things more than the bad—but things that he didn’t _know_ he was thankful for, before.

He knows how foolish it sounds, but the thankfulness is one of the things he struggles with the most.

It’s not that he’s not glad to feel the sun on his still-pale skin, it’s just that. It’s just that the awareness of what he has also brings everything he’s lost into focus.

Foggy spends at least a portion of most days quietly hating himself. He hates himself and hates Fisk and hates pretty much everything else too. It’s just, when he’s aware of what he has, he also tends to be most aware of what he’s lost, what was taken from him, what he might never get back. That knowledge is an aching void in his chest.

It’s worse because so many things are so close to how they used to be, how they _should_ be.

The first time he ate a proper hamburger it was the most wonderful thing he thinks he’s ever tasted, rich and flavorful. He vomited it all into an alley half a block down the street.

He still can’t stand to be naked for more than the time it takes to shower, and barely even that. Half the time he can’t even bring himself to shave, the feeling of the stubble being rasped off bringing with it the expectation of the taste of anonymous cock, until he has to brush his teeth and then brush them again just to cleanse it from his memory.

He hasn’t been back to Josie’s since they got out. He can’t stand the thought of walking there, of having to walk home. Just walking past the street where they were grabbed threw him into a panic so deep that the walk back to work was just a blur of static and white noise in his mind. He now walks an extra couple of blocks to avoid it.

But every time Foggy finds himself crumpling, the days when he can’t stand to see the shadows that now occupy the corners of rooms or feel the pressure that crushes him on the subway during rush hour, Matt’s been there. Matt’s been there to hold him together with his strong arms and his gentle hands and his soft words.

Matt hasn’t had it easy either, Foggy knows. The physical therapy is clearly taking its toll on a man not used to being in anything less than peak condition. And Matt has had his own struggles with what the cell took from him.

Foggy’s spent every night in Matt’s bed, his hand pressed tightly into Matt’s, the feel of Matt’s breath on the back of his neck.

He couldn’t say for sure, but he thinks their separation broke something in Matt, something deep and important. He knows Matt’s had some abandonment issues, what with his father’s death and growing up in an orphanage, but this is…this feels different. Matt’s arm around him is fierce and possessive and makes him feel safe in a way that he doesn’t anymore with anyone else. It’s like Matt is trying to make up for not being able to protect him in the cell, and Foggy wishes there was a way to convince Matt that he doesn’t have to make up for anything, that he doesn’t blame him at all.

But Foggy also likes it, and he’s worried that if he says anything Matt (compulsively self-flagellating idiot that he is) will think he doesn’t want to be there.

_He wants to be in Matt’s arms so much_ , Foggy acknowledges one day during one of the quick showers that are all he can bear now. _He wants to be there more than anything in the entire world._

So instead he’s taken to climbing into Matt’s bed shyly each night and listening to the passing traffic until he falls asleep in the other man’s arms. He wakes each morning cradled against that strong chest, the faint tang of Matt’s soap in his nose, and if he has nightmares they don’t matter when Matt is there to hold him until he can believe he’s safe.

Foggy hears noises out in the stairwell beyond the door, and he swallows nervously.

Matt’s not Captain America. He’s just a guy. Sure, a guy with really amazing senses who can tumble and throw a punch like it’s his job, but a guy nonetheless. Foggy really shouldn’t be this nervous about a dinner date.

The door finally opens after a prolonged stillness that can only be Matt adjusting his tie and hair. When it does, Foggy’s stomach flips. Matt is handsome, is unreal in his handsomeness, and when he smiles, it is a smile meant only for Foggy.

“Ready to go?” Matt asks, and Foggy stands, takes the hand extended to him.

It shouldn’t have been a shock, not really, Foggy would later think to himself. It shouldn’t be a shock when Matt asks, “Can I kiss your cheek?”

But somehow it is. Foggy nods stupidly, and then realizes what he's doing and adds a strangled, “Yes.”

Matt reaches out and takes one of his shoulders in one hand and lays his other hand against his cheek to turn his face, and Foggy knows he’s blushing, knows he’s grinning like a loon.

The kiss is as soft as a whisper, and Matt pauses before adding a second one, with just a touch more fire. And then Matt pauses and asks, “Can I…?” And before he can even finish the sentence Foggy has his lips on Matt’s, and it’s. It’s _perfect_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end, friends! Thank you for going on this crazy ride with me :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Only Color I See](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15005108) by [BookWerm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookWerm/pseuds/BookWerm)




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